


From Time

by ugliegay



Series: Time [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: ((tw for minor nonviolent transphobia)), Break Up, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Making Up, Non-Linear Narrative, Trans Bokuto Koutarou
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-02-11 04:23:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12927372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ugliegay/pseuds/ugliegay
Summary: Kuroo nods resolutely, turning on his heel a disappearing into the golden light of the library’s front doors. Just before Akaashi turns to hail another cab, a distant shout reaches his ears.“Forget about Bokuto Koutarou.”The slam of the doors closed echoes through the clearing. Wind howls and faint Christmas music plays too loud from a car just passing through.Akaashi sighs.He couldn’t even forget Bokuto Koutarou if he tried.-Amidst the cold and heartbreak of winter, Akaashi Keiji remembers an old friend.





	1. cold/warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! If you've been following me closely on twitter you know I've been hyping this up for quite a long time now, but it's finally here (just in time for Keiji's bday!!) and I am so so so excited to show you all this fic.
> 
> First and foremost, this piece is not solely about Bokuto being trans and his struggles with it. It's not even from his pov. There are very prevalent themes revolving around Bokuto being trans, but it's not meant to be a sob story. There is minor transphobia, but nothing too violent or hateful. I wrote this too personally give myself hope and it spiraled into so much more. I hope this inspires all of you as well, whether you're trans or not.
> 
>  
> 
> A cover was drawn by my dear friend [Jay](https://twitter.com/ghostIyskz) who's a very talented artist. Go show them some love! You can find the cover [here](https://twitter.com/ugliegay/status/938210256143994880).
> 
> My commissioned cover was drawn by the lovely [Alex](https://twitter.com/thulbs) and can be found at the beginning of this fic.
> 
> I drew some more art for this story which can be found [here](https://twitter.com/ugliegay/status/923751016432009218) and [here](https://twitter.com/ugliegay/status/924132501274152960). Follow my twitter page for more!
> 
> The title comes from the song [From Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0M4nKru2H_Q) by Drake ft. Jhene Aiko. The quote at the beginning comes from [The Village](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tilsrO-3gcQ) by Wrabel.
> 
> Without further ado, I present to you, From Time...

 

 

 

 

 

_In nature, a flock will attack any bird that is more colorful than the others because being different is seen as a threat._

 

_Take to the skies._

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

It’s around the sixth or seventh call that Akaashi snaps.

 

In the back of a taxi caught in traffic, five minutes away from the restaurant he was supposed to be at half an hour ago, the calm, level-headed Akaashi Keiji loses his cool. He plucks the buzzing data pad from his suit jacket and answers the call with a sharp, biting, “What the _fuck_ do you want?”

 

If Kuroo were there he might have fainted in disbelief.

 

On the screen, Ennoshita seems like he might do exactly that. Or start crying. Instantly, Akaashi is filled with regret.

 

“Oh, it’s just you,” he breathes, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought you were Hinata-kun…”

 

Silence. Even his taxi driver gives him a _you fucked up_ kind of glance.

 

“Fuck,” he murmurs, “Chikara, I’m so sorry. Hinata-kun has been calling nonstop for the past hour now and we’re stuck in traffic and I know you’ve been wait—”

 

“It’s fine, Keiji,” Ennoshita nearly whispers in a way that’s about five thousand light-years away from fine. He’s as pale as the snow falling outside and Akaashi can’t help but wonder if there’s something else bothering his boyfriend.

 

Akaashi pauses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, no, it’s not fine. I’m so sorry, just—”

 

Akaashi sees the insecurity in Ennoshita. It’s in the the nervous flitting pupils, the shrugged shoulders.

 

“I’m sorry. I love you. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

 

He barely hears Ennoshita’s timid, “I love you too…”

 

A solemn beep rings through the air signaling the end of the call. The taxi driver grimaces at Akaashi through the mirror and, _damn_ does it finally hit him how badly he’d messed up.

 

Ennoshita has been nervous with Akaashi as of late; uncharacteristically jumpy and shaky whenever he calls. Akaashi’s job hadn’t been helping, especially dealing with Hinata, who had dropped his beloved Nikon - D810 DSLR (affectionate dubbed Shiro-sama by both Hinata and Kuroo) directly into a puddle during this morning’s shoot. Akaashi is on his last couple threads, hinging on the edge of a mental break and he’s not sure his boyfriend is doing much better, having just returned to Japan after months away in Finland.

 

And of course, as fate would have it, all these stressful events decide to crest on the very same day; Akaashi’s 23rd birthday.

 

Rolling his shoulders back, Akaashi shoves his data pad back into his suit jacket. With a resolute sigh, he decides that he deserves a good birthday, _goddammit_ , and he’s going to get one. He produces two crisp bills from his pocket, not bothering to look at the value, as he throws them at the driver and then opens the car door just as the light turns green.

 

There’s a lot of yelling, a barrage of car horns beeping at him but Akaashi is not deterred, not even in the slightest. He walks through the oncoming traffic with his jaw set in a hard line and an aquamarine gaze that burns like fire.

 

He steps onto the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding death by speeding motorcycle but he does not flinch because he is Akaashi Keiji and a determined Akaashi Keiji at that. The data pad in his suit jacket buzzes incessantly in a way that tells him Hinata has resorted to texting to get his apology across. Akaashi does not reach for it. He instead stops at at a flower stand and buys a bouquet of cream colored roses that would work well with Ennoshita’s warm eyes. He tips the old woman at the stand for her great kindness and her bravery, as she stands outside amidst the freezing cold and continues on.  

 

His eyes travel up toward the street signs. Only five more blocks to go.

 

He dedicates these five blocks to remembering poor Shiro-sama, who perished at the hands of an energetic intern. He remembers the sleek black case with chrome accents, how he’d first laid eyes on it a little over four years ago. Whenever he blinks, he sees the glass of its lens shatter all over again, hears the metal crunching.

 

For a brief moment, he considers crying. Then he sees the glittering gold sign of _Sugimoto Ramen_ , his favorite ramen shop, the one where he’d first met Ennoshita, and puts all thoughts of his camera to the back of his mind. _He will have a good birthday._

 

Adjusting his tie, he steps through the door.

 

He’s severely overdressed but so is Ennoshita, who sits in the booth in the far right corner, their booth, dressed in a crisp black turtleneck and those dress pants that make his thighs look irresistible. Threading his hands together, he feels a twinge of anxiety ebbing at his the pit of his stomach. He blinks his eyes closed and walks slow, steady strides toward the corner.

 

Ennoshita’s smile comes easily, though the corner of his lips trembles. It seems as if every cell in his body is vibrating. There’s no pristine wrapped gift on the table as there had been for the past three years they’ve been together. Instead, much to Akaashi’s confusion, is a single red rose.

 

“Happy Birthday, Keiji,” Ennoshita greets warmly, letting go of his offerings to reach for Akaashi’s hands. His fingers tremble, slick with sweat.

 

The cogs start turning in Akaashi's head, brow creasing together in confusion. This is not standard Ennoshita Chikara behavior. The man Akaashi knows and loves thrives on routine and perfection, strong and sure, a captain who leads without fear. He's gentle in nature, easy going in his grace, and always, without fail, prepared.

 

The trembling, violent storm of a person in front of Akaashi is someone he does not know. He's never seen Ennoshita like this; never seen him _vulnerable._

 

In all of five years, he’s never seen Ennoshita vulnerable.

 

His heart drops like a rock in water.

 

“Thank you,” Akaashi replies with a small bow of his neck. He squeezes the hands in his own to provide some semblance of reassurance.

 

Ennoshita smiles weakly. Akaashi feels as if he’s looking at a stranger.

 

He doesn’t realize he had engaged Ennoshita in a staring contest until he finally breaks eye contact to search around for the menu. There’s no need for one, Akaashi always knows want he wants to order. But his hands have to busy right now. They have to. Otherwise, he’ll start pick at his cuticles like he used to do in high school. Or maybe chew on them like a child.

 

But it’s not there. His right thumb nail drives into his left ring finger.

 

Ennoshita seems to read the low level of distress in Akaashi’s eyes. “I already ordered for us…”

 

_Us._

 

The words strikes Akaashi. It shocks the breath out of him because he had been so used to being just a _me_. Singular. Ennoshita had been gone for so long and the apartment had been empty for months on end. Akaashi had settled into his singularity.

 

“Ah,” Akaashi muttered. “Thank you.”

 

An awkward pause passes between them. Akaashi feels a tiny droplet of blood spill from the wound on his finger.

 

“H-how was… Finland?” he says, breath stuttering. That’s his go-to question, his security blanket to hide behind. It rolls off his tongue like it has a million times before and Akaashi inwardly curses at himself because he knows how Finland was. Finland was _fine._ Finland was _okay._ On homesick nights when Ennoshita whispered quietly about how he missed the feeling of Akaashi’s lips, Finland was _complete bullshit_ and _too cold._ Akaashi knows how Finland was like he had been right there himself, so he has no reason to ask. But it slips out before he can catch it and Ennoshita raises an eyebrow.

 

“Oh,” The surprise in his voice does nothing to soothe Akaashi’s nerves. “It was good.” He already knows this.

 

“I finished my screenplay, finally. Futakuchi-san thinks it’s pretty good. We’re going to start editing soon…” He already knows this.

 

“That’s very… good.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Look, Chik-”

 

“Oh look there’s our food,” Ennoshita interrupts rather loudly.

 

Akaashi’s brow creases. He can’t, for the life of himself, figure out what Ennoshita has planned. It scares him.  Everything about the day has whipped his brain in so many different directions, he can’t think through this at all. Akaashi swallows the growing panic in his chest.

 

A server sets down a plate of onigiri and two large bowls of ramen. Akaashi bows his head, mutters his thanks, and begins to tear into the first onigiri.

 

They eat in relative silence, Akaashi buried in himself as he works through his forth rice ball in a row, staring down into his bowl. The air is so tense, any slight touch could snap the rigidity in Akaashi’s shoulders. He’s too caught up in the looping thoughts in his mind that he doesn’t notice Ennoshita, who has barely touched his food, fiddling with the rose in his hand.

 

“Keiji,” he sighs.

 

Akaashi snaps his head up. “What?” It comes out sharp, snappy and not at all like the complete _mush_ going on in his head.

 

“Are you alright?” Ennoshita asks. “I just have some things I wanted to say…”

 

Shaking his head, Akaashi runs trembling fingers through his hair. “No, no I’m okay, one of my interns just..”

 

Ennoshita cocks his head to the side and stares at him.

 

“Nevermind, it’s nothing. You were saying?” The words leave his mouth far too fast, but Ennoshita doesn’t care to notice this time.

 

At that, Ennoshita squares his shoulders and swallows hard. With the rose in his hand and nervousness in his tone, Akaashi’s brain finally seems to click everything into place. This is the first time they’ve seen each other face to face in months and it’s his birthday. Ennoshita is trying to make a romantic gesture.

 

How could he not have seen it coming? Ennoshita begins to speaks, waxing, obviously rehearsed, poetics about the way Akaashi looks in the moonlight and the sound of his voice in the morning but Akaashi barely processes it over the roar of blood in his ears. Everything is so distant and Ennoshita sounds so desperate; Akaashi cannot for the life of himself figure out why.

 

“...a-and you gave me the middle button on your blazer with the slyest look in your eyes and kissed me and ever since…” _I’ve been in love with you_. Akaashi already knows this.

 

Ennoshita begins to shift around until he’s down on one knee with a box in his hand and tears unshed in his eyes.

 

Akaashi cannot help the panic that courses through his body, the way he recoils in shock. The moment happens in slow motion. Suddenly, every eye in the shop is fixated on the two of them; an awestruck child squeals in glee, an elderly man takes out his data pad and starts recording, the shop owners stand in the kitchen entryway, fondness in their stares. “I love you so much Keiji,” Ennoshita says, but it sounds so far away, almost out of time with reality. “Will you marry me?”

 

And when he sees into Ennoshita all he can read is desperation, hanging on to shreds of a fabric torn into nothingness. Akaashi is a void, dead as panic slithers through him and grips his heart in its frozen claws.

 

“I’m sorry.” He begins to cry. He almost sprints out of the shop and into the cold, unending night.

 

-

 

Akaashi goes to _Sugimoto Ramen_ , like nearly half of his newly graduated peers. He would prefer to go home and take a very, very long overdue nap, but Komi and Bokuto had shown up and insisted they go out to celebrate. Had it not been for the promise of _Sugimoto’s_ new edition to the menu (an extra large salmon rice ball, rumored to be about the size of a man’s head) he wouldn’t have gone, but alas…

 

“C’mon Akaaashee, live a little,” Bokuto drawls in the stool next to him. “It’s your graduation.”

 

And it occurs to Akaashi that he’s very much so living a little, perhaps even a lot. He just _graduated._ Hell, he may even be living his best life at the moment, especially when the server sets down the onigiri right in front of him.

 

“Bokuto-san, I have been counting down to this day since you graduated,” Akaashi says through a mouthful of rice as Komi stares in wide-eyed awe. “I am eating a rice ball bigger than your head and I will probably never have to see half of these rather annoying people ever again, trust me I am having the absolute best time of my life.”

 

“Akaashi you’re so boriiing,” Bokuto whines, daring to reach his hand toward Akaashi’s plate, to which Akaashi promptly smacks his hand away with something akin to a snarl on his lips.

 

“Akaashi-kun,” Komi says, a scheming furrow in his brow. “Are you gonna do something, ya know, with your…”

 

He gestures to Akaashi’s blazer, around the midsection and winks when Bokuto has looked away to investigate a rather rambunctious crowd of basketball players.

 

Akaashi hardens his face, piercing eyes glaring daggers into Komi’s skull as he chews on a mouthful of rice. His hands, though reluctant, trace downward until they connect with the second button and yank it off, never breaking intense eye contact.

 

He swallows, stands up, and pushes his barstool in. “Watch me, Komi-san,” he says with the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips.

 

His heart hammers in his chest, but he’s never been so sure of anything in his life; he will find the nearest gay boy in this shop that _isn’t_ Bokuto Koutarou, and give him the button, because no matter what all of his annoying senpai had once said, he absolutely _does not_ have a gigantic crush on Bokuto Koutarou. Not even in the slightest. He just has a thing for nice biceps, that’s all, _really._

 

So he scours the busy shop with cold eyes, finding that most of _Sugimoto_ is currently filled with heterosexuals, not a single one of his own kind in sight, except for...

 

Akaashi shakes his head. Nope. There has to be someone else.

 

He almost gives up his search after two minutes, nervously glancing to an incredulous Komi, smirk spreading high on his face. Akaashi turns back around, giving the crowd one more gloss over…

 

And there he is, Ennoshita Chikara, the former captain of Karasuno, radiating with gay energy as he delicately laughs at something the boy across from him had just said.  

 

Akaashi marches across the room with a smile that could only be described as downright terrifying. With a burst of confidence he doesn’t feel in his chest, he slams the button down and pulls Ennoshita close by the tie.

 

Everything is a mystery. Ennoshita has no reason to be in Tokyo, no reason to be so beautiful as he inhales with a light gasp of surprise, no reason to kiss back when Akaashi smashes their faces together.

 

The world seems to hold its breath for a moment. There are gasps and whispers; without a doubt, every eye in the restaurant is on them. Akaashi continues kissing Ennoshita, nibbling lightly on his bottom lip, before breaking away with a string of saliva still connecting them. Out of the corner of sight, Komi is filming the exchange on his phone, eyes alight with both shock and glee.

 

“Akaashi Keiji,” Akaashi whispers, eyes half-lidded.

 

Ennoshita takes the button into his hands, never breaking their stare. “Ennoshita Chikara.”

 

Akaashi looks over Ennoshita’s shoulder and smiles at Bokuto and Komi. How’s _that_ for living a little?

 

-

 

Akaashi doesn’t remember storming out of the restaurant. For a while, the only thing he can hear is the roaring of blood in his ears; the only thing he can feel is the still beating rhythm of his heart in his chest, shaking his body down to his toes. Panic has taken hold of him, icy in its choking grip.

 

And Akaashi is no longer in love with Ennoshita.

 

He doesn’t remember it happening. He can’t recall a time where he had started to stop feeling _those feelings_. When did Ennoshita’s eyes, once warm with admiration, suddenly feel too hot?

 

Akaashi quakes on the sidewalk, walking aimlessly through the city. His feet run on autopilot as the gears in his mind turn on and on and on…

 

It’s snowing. Quiet little pinpricks of ice hit the back of his neck, reminding him that he had likely forgotten his scarf in his panic. The gloves on his hands had been shoved on without much grace, little droplets of blood drying into the insulated fabric. Snowflakes land on his exposed wrist. He’s cold now.

 

Too cold.

 

The city bustles on. With a swift check to his data pad he learns that it is just shy of 9 pm on a Saturday night, and he has no idea where to go.

 

Akaashi feels panic in his chest yet again. His heart stutters as he thinks of what to do next. A few people run into him as he slows on the sidewalk, giving him sidelong glares and cursing under their breath. He stops completely, holds his hand out and hails a taxi, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

 

Everything is cold. He feels miles away from himself, like he’s watching himself from outside of his body. As he ducks into the cab, a blast of warm air hits his face and melts the snow into his curls. A stray droplet runs down the side of his face.

 

“Where to?” the driver asks, meeting Akaashi’s eyes in the mirror.

 

He freezes up again. He can’t think, he can’t feel. So resorts back to something familiar, a place so ingrained in him, where he had once thought he’d spend forever.

 

“Meiji University,” he says calmly, without a stutter.

The driver just nods their acceptance and starts to drive forward. With the late night traffic, it’ll be at least forty minutes until he arrives there.

 

He pulls his data pad out of his pocket and opens up a contact, fingers shaking with uncertainty.

 

_To Kuroo Testurou_

 

_Kuroo-san, I hope you are not to busy. Can we talk?_

 

It takes only a minute for a response to pop up on the screen.

 

_From Kuroo Tetsurou_

 

_I just got thru my last lecture of the day but i’m meeting with a few students in the library in like an hour bc they need help_

 

_Is it important??_

 

An irritated sigh escapes Akaashi’s mouth. The driver turns up the radio as he types out a response.

 

_To Kuroo Tetsurou_

 

_Extremely important. Meet me outside the library in forty minutes._

 

He pauses and chews on his lip.

 

_I think I broke up with Chikara._

 

A quiet pop tune fills the air as Akaashi awaits a reply. He drums his fingers against his thigh and listens half-heartedly to the lyrics, something about a summer romance.

 

_From Kuroo Tetsurou_

 

_You think???_

 

_Keiji ur a mess i’ll talk to you when you get here_

 

At that, he decides that the conversation has ended. With a slow close of his drying eyes, he tucks the data pad back away in his pocket. It still buzzes, every three minutes like clockwork and Akaashi knows exactly who it is but can’t bring himself to look at the messages. He just can’t, not right now.

 

They pass into a quieter part of the city, blue and purple neon signs leaking colors onto the dark interior of the car. The radio channel lapses into a commercial break, earning a sigh from the driver. They quickly switch the station and put their hand back on the wheel, staring straight ahead. For a moment there is nothing but silence and snow and bleeding neons. Akaashi is numb. The wounds on his fingers have scabbed over.

 

Everything is white noise. The radio crackles between quiet piano music and the distant sound of an announcer. There’s a concert coming up, somewhere on the 10th of January and the 4th caller has just won tickets. Akaashi fixes his eyes on his hand, watching the pale skin lapse from neon red to electric blue. He is reminded of the second date he took Ennoshita on, dancing under the flashing lights as an indie band performed a song about falling in love. Akaashi had been falling in love.

 

“- and here we are, on 107.4, your favorite late night talk show, with LGBT sports icon, Bokuto Koutarou!” the radio blares.

 

 _Bokuto Koutarou._ Akaashi freezes, transfixed by the blue-green light of the radio.

 

“Now Bokuto-san-“

 

“Just call me Bokuto.” It’s that _voice._ It tugs at his heart, calling out to Akaashi. He remembers back when everyone had cell phones, hearing that voicemail because Bokuto never picked up. _“Hey it’s me, Bokuto Koutarou! I can’t get back to you- Kuroo stop- just text me or something…”_

 

 _“_ Alrighty, then Bokuto it is,” the radio host recovers and they both laugh. His sounds like it always has, deep and rumbling, loud enough to fill up any space. “Now, I’m just curious, because of the recent videos that just resurfaced, were there any struggles you had to go through as an adolescent volleyball player?”

 

Akaashi pictures Bokuto in his mind's eye, chewing on his lip, thinking out a response as his fiddles with the leather bracelet around his wrist.

 

“Well, struggle is like… a given for me at the point. I came out during my first year but the dean forced me to join the girls’ volleyball team, which sucked honestly, but I had sorta rolled over and let it happen, ya’ know.” His voice is raspy and low as he tells the story, but he never wavers or cracks. “Flash forward to my second year. I meet this tiny little first year, no more than 160 centimeters, and we became friends instantly cause he was this _amazingly_ talented setter.

 

“So I told him about my predicament and I remember him just gettin’ so angry. We were in the middle of lunch and he gets up and marches into the dean’s office with me trailin’ behind him. And he just starts screamin’ at the top of his lungs, like, just picture this little first year yelling at a forty-year-old transphobe.”

 

Bokuto chuckles fondly, his tone soft and nostalgic as he closes out the story. “In the end, we won… it's because of him that I’m here today..”

 

Akaashi closes his eyes, the interview dissipating back into white noise. He stares blankly; feels tears well up behind his eyelids.

 

In every memory, Bokuto is colored gunmetal blue, something soft and dulled. His face is still round, unbroken by hormones and maturity and the test of time itself. He runs toward Akaashi, picks him up and sweeps him off his feet. “ _We won, Agaashee!”_

 

And Akaashi in the present _feels._ He feels so much his head begins to ache from all of the emotions he thought he buried years ago.

 

They pass out of the busy part of town, into the quieter residential areas. Club signs turn into faint street lights. He watches a drunk couple, two women, stumble up to the lobby of their apartment, holding hands and refusing to let go, even when the one tries to open the door one handed.

 

He thinks of all the mistakes he’s made. He thinks of Ennoshita and his hot, too hot eyes, and Hinata’s shaking fingers closing around the camera. There’s that time in university when he accidentally deleted Kuroo’s entire finals presentation. He recalls the anger in Kuroo’s voice, the tremor in his left hand as he yelled at Akaashi so loud their neighbors almost called the cops.

 

Out of all of them, the biggest was letting Bokuto Koutarou go.

 

-

 

Akaashi drops the onigiri in his hand and lets it flop onto the desk. The classroom is bathed in light hues from the cherry blossoms but all he sees is red.

 

“He said _what?”_ he seethes, glaring at Bokuto, who has resorted to thumbing at the leather bracelet on his wrist.

 

“He, um,” Bokuto starts, nervousness dripping from his voice, “said that there’s too many differences, um, biologically, and- wait Agashee where are you going?”

 

Apparently, Akaashi had gotten out his seat at some point. He turns on his heel, straightens his tie, and heads in the direction of the classroom door with Bokuto spluttering behind him.

 

“I’m going to the dean’s office,” he declares, wondering why his voice didn’t shake with anxiety.

 

“Agaaaashee,” Bokuto groans, gripping the the slicked back spikes of his hair. “Don’t do that you’ll get in-“

 

“Bokuto-san, are you happy playing on the girl’s team?” Akaashi doesn’t stop his long strides. They’re out in the hallway now and people are glaring at him. Perhaps he’s getting too loud.

 

Bokuto stops and looks down to his fingers. “No…,” he says, barely audible amongst the chatter of students.

 

“Then let me do this for you.” Akaashi starts up the stairs. He doesn’t notice his trembling hands.

 

“Akaashi, I can't let you-”

 

“Listen,” he says, turning around to face his friend. The corner of his lip twitches as he drops his face into a cold expression. He speaks in a low voice. “I know it is not your job to speak up to those who oppress you, so I understand your situation. I empathize but it is my job as your friend and your ally to stand up for you whenever possible. I will not allow you to be complacent. You deserve to be on the boy’s team.”

 

Bokuto’s golden eyes widen. “Friend,” he mouths to himself, brow creased with confusion.

 

“You need someone on your side, Koutarou, because there are so many disgusting people that want to watch you fail.”

 

They stop on a stair landing. Akaashi grabs his shoulders, forcing him to make eye contact.

 

“Are you prepared to work ten times harder than anyone else? Are you prepared to have to earn the respect of your teammates and opponents?” Akaashi asks. A shiver runs down Bokuto’s spine.

 

“Yes,” Bokuto responds without hesitation.

 

With a coy smile on his lips, Akaashi takes a deep breath. “Then let me do this for you.”

 

An hour later, Akaashi ends up with a suspension notice for using rather profane language against the second year dean. Bokuto ends up with an email from the Fukurodani boy’s volleyball team coach and a spot on the year's’ roster.

 

-

 

“Akaashi Keiji, you look like shit!” Kuroo smiles as Akaashi drags himself out of the taxi.

 

“Likewise, Kuroo-san,” Akaashi returns. “I would imagine you’d take better care of your hair now that you’ve grown it out, but apparently you are incapable of touching a brush.”

 

Kuroo just clicks his impeccably white teeth and shoots finger guns at Akaashi. He flicks his eyes up to the sky and asks whatever deity in the sky why they had wasted such attractiveness on someone who embodies the spirit of a petulant child. Unfortunately, he gets no answer.

 

Out of genuine curiosity, Akaashi reaches up to run his fingers through the rat’s nest atop Kuroo’s head, the so-called messy bun (though it’s a lot more messy than bun), and immediately regrets. The knots catch on one of his rings. His face contorts in disgust.

 

“Did you come here to berate me for my hairstyle or are we not gonna dance around talking about your feelings for once?” Kuroo asks, with a quirk of his eyebrow.

 

Akaashi scrunches up his nose, glaring at Kuroo. “Damn you, Tetsurou,” he whispers.

 

Kuroo wraps his arm around Akaashi. “You know you love me,” he coos, nuzzling his head into Akaashi’s neck in mock affection.

 

“No, I tolerate you because you’re my only option,” Akaashi tuts. He walks forward, the doors to Meiji’s library beckoning him with the promise of warmth. His longing for his favorite blue scarf has only increased since he has first noticed its absence.

 

“Awe babe, don’t be like that,” Kuroo drawls, spinning Akaashi around, _away_ from the glowing yellow light and back into the endless winter. “Tell daddy, what’s wrong.”

 

“If you call yourself my ‘daddy’ again I’m leaving.”

 

Akaashi turns back around.

 

“After you came all this way, Keiji?”

 

And Kuroo shifts him back.

 

“Tell you what, if you explain to me why you are _so_ determined to deprive me of the warmth of the indoors, I’ll explain to you exactly what happened with Chikara.”

 

The snow has stopped, finally relinquishing Akaashi’s neck from its icy torture. He supposes he can endure twenty minutes in the freezing temperatures in exchange for dirt on Kuroo.

 

Kuroo lets out a low whining sound. “Keijiiiiiii.”

 

“Tetsurouuuuu,” Akaashi parrots.

 

“Fine.” Kuroo crosses his arms and huffs out a deep breath. It puffs white into the night air. “I have two love interests waiting for me inside the library.”

 

Akaashi raises his eyebrow. “Two? That’s a dramatic downsize from those four swimmers you had a crush on last month.”

 

“Yeah well, at least these two might like me back,” Kuroo says. “They’re coming back to my apartment today.”

 

Akaashi scrunches up his face. “Poor them.” There’s a steady silence and Akaashi starts to dig his left thumb into his right index finger. “What are they like?”

 

He pretends not to notice the fond smile that blooms on Kuroo’s lips. “The one has enough sarcasm to bring you to shame.” Kuroo laughs into his hand, red blossoming high on his cheekbones. “He’s tall, blond, dreamy, a sassy piece of shit.

 

“The other is really shy. They’re adorable, with a lot of freckles and dark green hair and the cutest laugh…”

 

Akaashi smiles. “And not a single comment on their asses. Dare I say that the great Kuroo ‘I don’t do romance’ Tetsurou, is in love?”

 

Kuroo stares off into the night. The stars are just beginning to peak from out of the clouds, gentle light softening his features. “Maybe,” he replies, all the teasing gone from his tone.

 

The wind blows freezing air into Akaashi’s face. He snuggles his neck down where his scarf should have been. The smile drops from his face. “Hinata-kun dropped Shiro-sama in a puddle of mud.”

 

And Kuroo gasps. Because Akaashi’s beloved camera was like their child. Kuroo had even named it after his favorite beefcake from some American cartoon. He’d paid for half of it, taken shots of Akaashi’s “juicy ass” with it. There were old shots of them together in their dorm taken on that very camera.

 

“Hinata-kun dropped Shiro-sama,” Akaashi repeats, feeling the build-up, the tension behind his eyes and the back of his throat, “and it shattered into a million pieces, just like Chikara’s heart while I felt _nothing,_ Tetsurou, _absolutely nothing.”_

 

“Keiji, brea-“

 

“It’s like I’m this empty pit, I mean we’ve been together for five years. I should be able to feel something.” Akaashi’s hands start to pick viciously at the scabs, increasing pace as his voice speeds up.

 

Kuroo grabs his fingers. “Keiji, stop.”

 

A hiccuping breath exits Akaashi’s parted lips. He ceases his ramblings and his mind is now empty. All he knows is Kuroo’s gloved hands on his wrists and Bokuto’s voice in his head. _In the end we won. It’s because of him-_

 

“Breathe.”

 

Akaashi obeys. He blinks wide eyes up at Kuroo, allowing himself exactly ten deep breaths before he speaks again.

 

“What do I do now?” he asks. His voice has returned to its normal droning pattern, flat and devoid of emotion. The sting of tears in his eyes betrays that stability of his tone.

 

Kuroo laughs, that ugly, grating laughter that commands everyone’s attention because of how completely terrible it is. And Akaashi is entranced, staring openly. “I don’t even know what happened, Keiji.”

 

Right. That. The whole proposal thing. Akaashi almost forgot. He had been too busy feeling nothing to remember that, apparently.

 

He grits his teeth. “Chikara proposed to me in a restaurant, in front of a dozen or so people,” he explains. “And expected me to say yes.”

 

“Well, you have been together for five years.”

 

“In front of everyone, Kuroo-san!” His heart hammers against his rib cage. “We’ve never even talked about marriage!”

 

“Why did you say no?”

 

Kuroo’s glare cuts deep, his unnatural golden eyes shining with sincerity Akaashi cannot lie to.

 

“I,” Akaashi says. “I don’t love him.” The last part of his sentence fades out into the night and Kuroo just nods because it isn’t a surprise to him. Even Akaashi himself had known, deep down, but admitting it and living with the consequences of it is different.

 

His heart slows down and Kuroo wraps him in a tight hug. “Hush,” he soothes, running a gloved hand through Akaashi’s hair. “I know you’re over thinking right now. Just breathe.”

 

Akaashi does as he says, standing there amidst the snow, clinging to Kuroo until he can get a sense of his thoughts again. He stops trembling, his breath evens out to a slow and soft pattern that counters the rising and falling of Kuroo’s chest.

 

“It’s okay to not want the same thing you wanted when you were eighteen,” Kuroo whispers as if reading his mind. “No one blames you, Keiji.”

 

Akaashi breaks from the embrace and wipes the moisture from his eyes. “I know it can’t be helped, but the guilt is going to kill me.”

 

When all's said and done, Akaashi knows that he had been unintentionally leading someone on, someone he had been completely in love with just a few years ago and that’s the worst part of it. Ennoshita deserves better. He deserves flowers and cakes and chocolates and diamond rings; someone willing to travel with him as he drafts screenplays in foreign countries. He deserves someone with the emotional capacity to love him back, not the dead feelings Akaashi had been trying to rejuvenate.

 

The flurries start again.

 

“Bokuto Koutarou talked about me on live radio,” Akaashi tells the snowflakes, avoiding Kuroo’s judgemental gaze.

 

Shifting on his hips, Kuroo tuts and rolls his eyes. “Oh did he now? You sure it wasn’t one of his other best friends?”

 

The last words come out with a quiet sort of venom and Akaashi doesn’t blame him. Bokuto hadn’t talked to either of them since he started playing for F.C. Tokyo. He feels the bitterness sometimes when he looks through his college photo albums, remembering the days when they were so inseparable, his composition professor had called them two halves of a whole.

 

“Do you have his ID number?”

 

The question seems to insight fury in Kuroo. His eyebrows knit together in shock before anger spreads across all of his features.

 

“Falling out of love with someone isn’t selfish, Keiji,” he says, “but this is. Just because you’re singl-”

 

“Kuroo-san, the status of my relationship is still very unknown. If you think I’m looking for rebound while I’m still living with my boyfriend, you hardly know me at all.”

 

Silence permeates the air. The snow hits the back of Akaashi’s neck as he realizes that he’s turned the mood sour. He softens his expression at the same time as Kuroo.

 

“I’m sorry,” Kuroo says quietly. “Just go home and talk to Chikara, okay? No more lying about your feelings.”

 

“I apologize as well,” Akaashi murmurs. He averts his gaze. “Thank you for talking with me.” He leans up to Kuroo and presses a small, fleeting kiss to his cheek. “Good luck with your potential partners.”

 

Kuroo nods resolutely, turning on his heel a disappearing into the golden light of the library’s front doors. Just before Akaashi turns to hail another cab, a distant shout reaches his ears.

 

“Forget about Bokuto Koutarou.”

 

The slam of the doors closed echoes through the clearing. Wind howls and faint Christmas music plays too loud from a car just passing through.

 

Akaashi sighs.

 

He couldn’t even forget Bokuto Koutarou if he tried.

 

-

 

The TV is still blaring when Akaashi gets home, saturated oranges and blues from whatever anime Ennoshita had decided to watch bleeding into the hall. Theme music bounces off the walls. Akaashi doesn’t recognize it.

 

He doesn’t realize he’s tiptoeing until he falls back from the balls of his feet. The solid heel of his dress shoes lands on the hardwood hard enough to announce his presence. His heavy coat drops to the ground, keys clattering against the wood. His shoulders go slack. _He’s so tired._

 

Ennoshita’s face floats into vision, red-eyed and streaked with dried teardrops. And he looks just as exhausted. If not, possibly more.

 

“Chikara,” Akaashi says, but it comes out in a whisper.

 

The TV splashes pink onto Ennoshita’s complexion. Tears start to fall again. He stays where he is, not making any effort to walk toward Akaashi.

 

“I thought I could do this,” Ennoshita says. His voice wobbles and cracks on the last syllable and Akaashi feels his heart drop to his stomach.

 

Emotions are fickle things, especially with Akaashi. They change and vary from day to day and with Ennoshita, they wore away over time. But he doesn’t want to see the man he had once been head over heels for so genuinely _torn up._

 

And while Akaashi may be slightly emotionally constipated, he’s not insensitive. “Chikara,” he says once more and flings himself at his partner, wrapping solid arms around a shaking form. “I’m sorry,” he says once, and repeats it, four times over as he strokes Ennoshita’s hair. “I’m so sorry.”

 

Ennoshita shakes in his grasp. He tries to speak, but his mouth doesn’t move. Akaashi’s heart thumps in his chest because he knows he can’t comfort Ennoshita. There’s nothing he can do anymore. Somewhere between five years ago and now, he fell out of love and doesn’t know how to get it back. He doesn’t _want_ it back.

 

Akaashi thinks of Kuroo. He looks down at Ennoshita. Saturated orange covers his tear-stained face as he struggles to meet Akaashi’s gaze. In his brown eyes is a pleading, shining emotion that Akaashi can’t even begin to comprehend.

 

_It’s okay to not want the same thing you wanted when you were eighteen._

 

Akaashi’s fingers begin to shake.

 

_No one blames you, Keiji_

 

“W-wha,” he tries to start but the word dies in his throat. Clearing it, he detaches himself from Ennoshita and sees an overnight bag in his hands, shoes on his feets, a winter coat on his shoulders. “What will you do now?”

 

Ennoshita averts his stare to the hardwood floor. His frame trembles, outlined in a soft yellow glow. He looks like an angel, or perhaps, in this case, a martyr.  His vulnerable voice breaks through the volume of the tv, just loud enough for Akaashi to hear.

 

“I think it’s best that w-we,” he swallows, and adjusts the bag so that it sits on his shoulder, “go our separate ways.”

 

The statement should have been punctuated, powerful as Ennoshita is, but it’s just the opposite. Vulnerability laces into every word he speaks and Akaashi can’t help the pity that rises in his gut.

 

“Just for now. I’ll be back,” he adds on, a hopeful tint entering his tone. A brief smile turns the corner of his lips, but it dies back down to something sad; something distant. “I love you, Keiji.”

 

And Akaashi knows that this is Ennoshita’s way of reasoning. He is fishing for the last couple scraps of their relationship, but it had gone away so long ago. There’s no picking up the pieces or repairing the loose ends, and somehow, this is something they both know. They had known for awhile now, but Akaashi’s rejection seemed to be the breaking point.

 

Ennoshita leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to Akaashi’s lips. They’re warm and wet from tears. He rolls back down from the balls of his feet, walks down the hallway and out of the door. Just like that, he’s gone.

 

Akaashi is left to stare, green eyes dead and glossy as he hears a muffled sob rip through the air. All the warmth is gone from his body, replaced by only distant, frozen nothingness.

 

He clutches his chest.

-

 

Waking up to an empty bed doesn’t bother Akaashi. He’s grown used to it over the years, the cold sweat on his back, the expansive sheets, surrounding him on either side, all to himself. Daresay, he enjoys the solitude.

 

However, this morning is different. Ennoshita’s absence is a hole, dark and empty. Akaashi shivers. He looks to the window and sees the morning light just peeking out from grey blizzarding clouds. Everything is chilled, his fingertips frozen like icicles against his own skin.

 

Several messages buzz his data pad against the sheets, lighting up the dark bedroom. Akaashi leans over, glossing tired eyes over the array of notifications he had gotten while asleep. The clock in the upper corner reads “5:46am”. In his head, the hours tally up and Akaashi discovers he had only slept for three. The words blur. He forces himself to read them, though his eyes start to strain.

 

_From Kuroo Tetsurou_

 

_I hope u got home alright_

 

_Bokuto’s id num is 56345609871 :/_

 

_Don’t say i never do anything for you_

 

_From Hinata Shouyou_

 

_Akaashi-san, I am so very sorry. Please, let me buy you a new one. I’ll pay, no matter how expensive._

 

 _From_ _Ennoshita Chikara_

 

_I’ll be staying at Futakuchi’s place._

 

_We need to talk more._

 

_I’m sorry for leaving so abruptly._

 

He doesn’t respond to any of them. Dragging his feet off the bed, his toes hit the ice cold hardwood floor. A shiver runs down Akaashi’s spine. Busy thoughts swirl around and around in his head, but he can’t make much sense of them. All he feels is numbing chill. Wintry frost.

 

Akaashi travels into the kitchen, staring down at his data pad while he walks. _56345609871_ stares up at him, emboldened and underlined by the systems algorithm, just begging Akaashi to click on it. One tap. That’s all it would take, and he would be back in contact with a friend he had once considered to be a ghost.

 

Akaashi should delete the message, process the emotional turmoil in his head but he can’t. Because Bokuto Koutarou is a ghost. Akaashi sees him on yogurt packages, sports drink advertisements, the front cover of _Sports Illustrated._ Bokuto is on his tv, in his news headlines, engrained in the way Akaashi still cracks a light smile whenever he sees anything in reference to owls, woven into the colors _blue, pink, white, pink, blue._

 

He brews a cup of coffee, preparing it in a trance. As he goes to pour in the sugar, he presses down once on his data pad and types out a message.

 

_To Bokuto Koutarou:_

 

_Hello Bokuto-san. It’s Akaashi Keiji. I heard your interview. I was wondering if you wanted to meet up for coffee._

 

He presses send and lifts the mug to his lips. Warmth spreads down his throat and curls inside his chest.


	2. light/dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Akaashi-saaaan,” comes that yowling chirp, signaling Hinata’s presence. He’s a blur of black and orange until he skids to stop right in front of Akaashi. Mud and snow kicks up from under his pristine dress shoes before he stops, holding out Akaashi’s data pad with such energy that it’s not clear whether it’s the device vibrating or Hinata himself.
> 
> “You’ve got an incoming voice call!” he screeches. Not five seconds later he’s pulled away by Hanamaki to help elsewhere.
> 
> Akaashi blinks up, bleary eyes tracing the unmistakable characters with shock slowly sweeping across his expression.
> 
> Bokuto Koutarou.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have been following from before, please note that the Tokyo team Bokuto plays for has been changed to F.C. Tokyo upon research revealing that the Red Rockets are a women's team and yours truly made a mistake.
> 
> Furthermore, I have been researching LGBT culture in Japan and Japanese sporting and have tried to create as accurate of an environment as possible. Since my verse is set in the future, it is written under the premise the same-sex marriage is legal in Japan in the future and being a gay/trans athlete is more widely accepted, if not supported. This is in no way a commentary on the state of current LGBT affairs in Japan as oppression worldwide is still very prominent. If this information is presented in any offensive way, dm me on Twitter (@ugliegay) and I will find a way to fix it.
> 
> TW for suggested minor transphobia and the q slur, used in an informational article setting

Akaashi hasn’t opened the blinds in six days. It’s a habit he’d gotten used to in Ennoshita’s absence. 

 

The darkness sits down around him, security and reassurance washing over him as he reads the same book for the fourth time that week. Air goes in through his lungs and passes out, his body empty like a deflated balloon; his mind empty like an endless chasm. 

 

He knows well enough that all he’s doing is isolating himself, but for now the darkness is welcome. It is inky, it is oppressive, but it is warm. He hear the echoes of Kuroo’s scolding voice in his head.  _ You need to open the curtains, Keiji.  _ He sighs and closes his book.  _ It’s not good for your psyche. _

 

Akaashi scoffs at thin air, annoyed because the Kuroo in his mind is absolutely correct. It’s true, the darkness is terrible for his mental wellbeing, but it’s comfortable. No one can touch him here. Not Hinata. Not Kenma. Not Bokuto. Not Ennoshita.

 

A short series of buzzes cuts through the eerie silence of Akaashi’s apartment accompanied by a ringtone set just so he could be warned whenever that  _ utter nuisance  _ decided to call him. The twinges of a headache stab at his temples. 

 

He lets it ring for a few moments, hoping that it’ll just go away if he ignores it, but from past experience, the  _ utter nuisance  _ won’t stop calling until Akaashi picks up. 

 

Slapping blindly at the blankets, he finds his data pad and answers the call with a quick swipe right, aiming the camera at the ceiling so as not to give  _ utter nuisance  _ yet another reason to lecture him. The three days old sweatpants weigh down heavy on his body and he just  _ knows _ he looks like a nightmare. He can feel the knots in his curls and the grease on his skin. It draws a tired sigh from him as he waits for the call to pick up. 

 

“Why did I have to hear from chibi-chan that you haven’t been to work in four days?” pain-in-the-ass Kuroo-san yowls, face contorted into anger on the screen. Akaashi simply rolls his eyes. 

 

“I wasn’t aware that you were my keeper, Tetsurou.” He crosses his arms and lays back against his bed.

 

“You wouldn’t need a keeper if you would take care of yourself like a normal human being, yet here we are,” Kuroo quips back. “Put your face on screen.”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“Why?”

 

Akaashi tips his head back far enough so that it thuds against the headboard. A defeated sigh passes through his lips because both he and Kuroo already know why. He rubs his eyes and blinks at the thick darkness surrounding him. He hadn’t registered the time, the fact that the sun had gone down hours ago. 

 

“Are you just here to lecture me or do you have other inquiries?” Akaashi says with a quirk of his brow. 

 

Kuroo’s face twists into a deep scowl, long tangled hair falling out of the bun on his head. “I-“

 

A pair of long, pale hands begins to card through the knotted dark strands. “Who’s this?” asks a new voice asks, biting and sharp with accusation. 

 

“None of your business, asshole,” Kuroo replies. He flicks the hands out of his hair and begins to walk out of whatever room he had been in. A much lighter laugh flickers over the line and Akaashi wonders if he had just met Kuroo’s latest lovers.

 

“Who’s this?” Akaashi parrots. 

 

“None of  _ your  _ business either.”

 

With a click of the tongue, Akaashi brings the data pad to his face, figuring he at least owes Kuroo a glimpse at his current state. 

 

And if Kuroo’s gasp is anything to go by...

 

“That’s it I’m coming over.”

 

Akaashi’s frown deepens. “That’s not necessary.”

 

“Keiji.”

 

“Tetsurou.”

 

“Look at yourself!” Kuroo yells, waving his free hand around. “You’re sulking!” 

 

“I  _ am not  _ sulking,” Akaashi bites back, wincing when the headache cracks at his skull. He rubs the side of his face, his callous resolve crumbling at he stares at Kuroo’s disappointment written so clearly on his features. 

 

And Akaashi is angry because he isn’t  _ supposed  _ to sulk, he’s Akaashi. He deals with things by burying them six feet below the surface and keeping his expression stone cold as the weather outside. That’s what Bokuto used to say anyways, but that wasn’t a surprise due to how Bokuto had learned to deal with stress. 

 

Akaashi rubs his eyes. He’s reminiscing about the past.

 

He  _ is  _ sulking. 

 

A loud groan escapes his lips, his sigh admitting both defeat and agreement with Kuroo’s previous statement. 

 

He rubs his eyes, glowers at the days old mascara that smudges across his hand. Bokuto had been surprised when he found out Akaashi’s full, thick lashes were the result of makeup. He crowed in awe the first time Akaashi took it off in front of him. The sixth time, he was drunk and told Akaashi that his eyes look just as beautiful without it. 

 

_ Like emeralds, ‘kaashi. Or sapphires. Sapphemralds.  _

 

“Keiji?”

 

Kuroo snaps his fingers obnoxiously in front of the camera, drawing Akaashi from his daydreams. 

 

It’s as if the whole world drops down upon Akaashi’s shoulders all in one second. The look of concern on Kuroo’s face is enough to prick unshed tears from the corners of his eyes. He’s emotional. He’s tired. The weight of his problems manifests itself right there and it’s almost too much for him to take. 

 

Almost. 

 

“I apologize,” Akaashi murmurs thickly. He swallows and blinks away the moisture. He would not cry. Not again. Not for something he did to himself. 

 

“Keiji,” Kuroo whispers, gently, kindly. “Really. How are you?”

 

Akaashi stares at the blank wall across from him, stripped of Ennoshita’s vintage movie posters. “I dunno, Tetsurou. I honestly don’t know.”

 

It’s the truth. It stings so badly, but it’s the truth. He’s a mess of contradictions. Happy because he’s free of the burden of pretending to love someone, sad because he’s lost someone who he’d once been so in love with he could barely see straight, longing for the past, looking toward a new future. Complacent. Yet itching for something new. 

 

A soft, shallow, “Babe?” comes from Kuroo’s end of the line and he replies with a whispered, “I’ll be right there,” with love cushioning his voice. 

 

“Go to them,” Akaashi murmurs. “I’ll be okay.”

 

Kuroo sighs. “Please take care of yourself.”

 

“Don’t worry about me.” Akaashi quirks his lips into a tiny smile, just for good measure. He presses the end call button before Kuroo can protest, falling back into the pillows with a heavy breath. His vision burns, the impression of the light left singed on his eyelids. 

 

From beneath his pillow, he pulls out a remote. He presses the middle button and watches in detached silence as the flat screen tv shifts out of the wall and turns on. He surfs the channels but doesn’t pay attention much to anything going on. 

 

It’s as if some supreme being is up there in the sky, meddling in Akaashi’s personal affairs, because when he lands on the news channel, Bokuto Koutarou’s smiling face is right there, talking animatedly with an interviewer. His hair has been cropped close, undercut with a tied back puff on the top of his head. His jaw is stronger, his chest broader, his eyes brighter. He’s talking about a recent game he played in, announcing that their victory brought them one step closer to being considered for an international tournament. 

 

Akaashi watches the rest of the broadcast in entranced wonder, hanging onto every detail. Bokuto stills wears those ridiculous knee pads, still throws his head back when he laughs, still fiddles with that leather bracelet when he’s asked a more trivial question. Same old Bokuto, yet so different. 

 

“- aiming for the Olympic team?” the interviewer asks and Bokuto’s laughing response seems to brighten Akaashi’s room. 

 

“Of course!” Bokuto exclaims. He shines, so stunning, Akaashi has no choice but to believe him. “It’s been my dream since I was a kid and I’m gonna work even harder to get there!”

 

Akaashi presses the middle button again. The room falls into darkness again, but he feels invigorated, like a bolt of energy has been shot into him. He knows why, but he can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed or ashamed. 

 

He brings his data pad up to his lap, scrolling through his messages until he finds Kuroo’s contact. 

 

_ To Kuroo Tetsurou: _

 

_ Meet me at Suga’s tomorrow. I need to get out of the house.  _

 

-

 

“We could’ve gone literally anywhere but Suga’s,” Kuroo hisses. Akaashi admits he might have picked this particular coffee shop and bakery because he finds Kuroo’s pain amusing, but there was no way he could’ve predicted that Suga himself would be manning the counter. 

 

Meaning Kuroo has to interact with his ex. 

 

And really, if it were any other ex Kuroo would be okay. He regularly goes drinking with Yaku. Shirofuku visits him every once and a while with her wife. Kenma works in the  _ same office _ as Kuroo. He could hold conversations with all of these people and act like a mature human being. 

 

Something about Suga seems to throw Kuroo off. 

 

From the moment they get in line Suga’s eyes are wandering up and down Kuroo’s form, ending in a sly wink that draws a laugh from Akaashi and an embarrassed cough from Kuroo. 

 

Akaashi steps back, pretending to debate between a chai latte and a matcha frappe, watching the ex lover’s tango unfold before his eyes with a barely concealed smirk. 

 

“Suga,” Kuroo says with a quirk of his brow.

 

“Hey handsome,” Suga drawls, leaning onto his hand and twirling a stray lock of hair with his free fingers. “What can I get you today?”

 

Standing up straight, Kuroo lets a sly grin cross his face. “Just a medium coffee with milk and a pump of caramel.” He leans on his heels and crosses his arms. “No sugar.” 

 

Suga scoffs and turns to make his drink. “I should spit in this,” he says nonchalantly. 

 

“You act as if I haven’t tasted your spit before, Koushi.”

 

Akaashi can’t help the peel of laughter that escapes him when Suga makes an exaggerated show of spitting a rather giant blob of mucus into a Kuroo’s cup. “What the fuck?” whispers the woman behind Akaashi. 

 

The coffee doesn’t take long to make and soon Kuroo receives a steaming cup,  _ Asshole  _ inscripted on the side in pristine kanji accompanied by a rather condescending heart. Or is that a penis? Akaashi can’t really tell without his glasses. 

 

“Hello Sugawara-san,” Akaashi greets. “Just a matcha frappe, please.”

 

Suga gives him that million dollar smile, the heart stopper as Kuroo had once called it. “Of course! Any whipped cream on that?”

 

Akaashi nods and takes a few bills out of his pocket to pay for their drinks. Upon further inspection of Kuroo’s cup, he still can’t figure out what the little picture is. “Say,” he begins, “is that a heart or a penis on the side of your cup there?”

 

“It’s a penis, Keiji!” Kuroo exclaims, louder than warranted. “He penised my cup!”

 

A few customers with curious eyes look toward the commotion and Kuroo has the gall to be embarrassed. 

 

“I hardly think penis is a verb,” Akaashi quips, bowing his head towards Suga. A loud sigh escapes Kuroo, blowing a stray piece of hair from his face. They both turn on their heel to seat themselves, Akaashi analyzing Kuroo from the corner of his eye. 

 

He plops unceremoniously in a booth, gesturing for Akaashi to sit across from him. Akaashi counts the seconds in his head, the amount of time it takes for him to get comfortable before the inevitable…

 

“Keiji, you look like shit.”

 

Seven whole seconds. A new record on Kuroo’s behalf. 

 

He nods in distant agreement and shifts his straw around, watching it trace patterns in the light green whip. 

 

“Where’s…” Kuroo starts, clears his throat and swallows the rest of his sentence that Akaashi knows the end to. 

 

“Futakuchi-san’s.” A deep shuddering breath blows past his lips. “He took most of his stuff two nights ago.” 

 

His eyes follow Suga as he steps from behind the counter to personally deliver a scone to an elderly woman sitting by herself. His smile is blinding, his grace is evident, and Akaashi remembers exactly why Kuroo fell so hard for this man all those years. Unparalleled kindness, beauty beyond compare. 

 

Kuroo frees his hair from his bun and lets it cascade down his back, pity filling his gaze. “He just took everything? After five years just…”

 

“Yeah,” Akaashi murmurs. “I think we both saw this coming.” 

 

That much is true. No matter how much Akaashi tries to lie to himself, he knows that it was bound to end sooner or later. He doesn’t believe in soulmates, in love at first sight, but he believes to some degree in the concept of  _ the one _ , or in Kuroo’s case  _ the few _ . There’s someone for him out there and it hadn’t been Ennoshita. 

Maybe he had missed his chance to find that person, slipping through his fingers like sand. 

 

Kuroo’s giving him that  _ look _ ; those probing amber eyes that drive into the deepest reaches of Akaashi and crack him wide open. 

 

“I’m not upset, Tetsurou,” he says, openly, honestly. “Just empty.” 

 

If a relationship spanning from the end of high school and following even after college couldn’t work for him, what would?

 

The unsaid question hangs in the air, heavy and thick over their heads, and Kuroo looks at him with those wide eyes like he understands; like he wants to console Akaashi. 

 

“You’ve been taking your meds at least?” Kuroo opts out, flicking his gaze toward his chewed fingernails. 

 

Akaashi scoffs. “Of course.”

 

“Good, I’m glad.”

 

“So who was that with you last night?” Akaashi switches the topic with tactful ease. He screws his face up into a half cocked smirk, sipping on his drink with newfound lightness. His chest moves a bit more freely, no longer weighed down. 

 

And Kuroo becomes  _ absolutely flustered.  _ His entire face colors red at the mere utterance of his companions. He starts to brush fingers through his hair, a nervous habit of his, biting the skin of his lips. 

 

The silence continues, Kuroo obviously figuring out what to say. 

 

“His name is Tsukishima Kei,” he starts, slowly, working at a knot near the back of his head. 

 

“Oya?” Akaashi smirks. 

 

“S-shut up!”

 

Kuroo looks down to the table, probably praying that the earth would open up and swallow him. “And the other is Yamaguchi Tadashi.” He’s about as red as a fire truck, eyes alight with something suggestive and surprisingly, something shy. 

 

“Tetsurou, you’re blushing down to your roots,” Akaashi notes. “Did you do something,” he drops his voice to a low whisper and raises an eyebrow, “ _ indecent. _ ”

 

“SHUT UP!”

 

“Sugawara-san!” Akaashi shouts, drawing even more attention to them. 

 

Suga saunters over to them, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Yes, Akaashi-kun?” 

 

“Can I get a chocolate muffin?” He asks with a grin. 

 

Sighing, Suga mirrors the smirk. “That’s Tetsun’s favorite if my memory serves me right. What’s the occasion?”

 

“He ended his six month virginity streak!” Akaashi chirps. 

 

“Congratulations, Tetsu! Perhaps you’d like some whipped cream on top?”

 

“I’m sure he got enough cream on top last night, Sugawara-san.”

 

“You two are the worst,” Kuroo hisses, hiding his face in his hands. “This always happens when you get together.”

 

“What can I say? Your misery is amusing, darling,” Suga says. He turns to go fetch the celebratory muffin. 

 

“He’s right, you know, you turn this delightful shade of red-“ 

 

“Shut up.”

 

A small boy with jet black hair and an impossibility bored expression takes over for Suga, picking at his cuticles as he watches over the few customers they have. When Suga returns, he sets a plate down in front of Kuroo,  _ CONGRATS ON THE SEX _ inscribed on chocolate on the side in English. 

 

The snow falls. It’s dark and grey, even in the pure light of the flurries, but it’s calm, peaceful. Better. Suga and Akaashi squeeze out all the juicy details they can, until Kuroo’s red down to the tips of his fingers. And when Suga leaves to go attend to shop owner business, Kuroo admits to the most tantalizing detail of them all. 

 

“Before we fell asleep, I told them both that I love them.”

 

Akaashi swirls his straw around, pretending to brush off the gravity of his statement. He wonders when the last time was that Kuroo had said those three words. His mind draws a blank. 

 

“Do you?” Akaashi asks. 

 

A long pause follows. He listens to the idle chatter swirling around them, knowing Kuroo is lost in his own mind. 

 

He parts his lips and licks them, bites them a few times before delivering his answer.

 

“Endlessly.”

 

Akaashi smiles. He’s so much lighter. “Good.”

 

-

 

“‘Kaashi, you alright?”

 

Light snapping registers in front of Akaashi’s distant gaze. Wide golden eyes blink owlishly at him, curious and concerned. 

 

But Akaashi is drunk. Fucked up. Gone with the wind. Terushima served him a glass of brown liquid about half an hour ago that he can’t remember what on Earth it was. He’s starting to suspect it had something to do with whiskey. 

 

Akaashi does not mix well with whiskey. 

 

He turns his head, purses his lips because they’re really numb, like  _ really really _ numb, and then speaks slowly. “Yes.”

 

“Alrighty, party times over Akaashi-kun,”  _ utter nuisance  _ says effectively killing the last lingering enthusiasm in him. And to think he was about to find Suga and ask for a tabletop dance. 

 

He pouts but he doesn’t really know he’s pouting because his lips are  _ so numb _ . His arms flail around on their accord until they connect around someone’s neck and Akaashi realizes too late that it’s Bokuto. It’s a thick neck, a muscular neck and he can’t stop the dreamy sigh that passes from his lips. 

 

“Carry me,” he demands with a flourish of his fingers. “Bokuto-sama, carry me.”

 

Terushima’s couch swallows him down and he definitely does not feel like moving. He can’t hear the mocking chorus of “Bokuto-sama” only focused on those impossibly golden eyes. 

 

“Wait wait wait wait,” Akaashi says, eyes half closed. “Where’s Sugawara-san, I have to,” He pauses to let out a loud burp. “I have to, uhh, speak to him.”

 

Kuroo shakes his head, a bitter frown playing at his lips. “Koushi left.”

 

Akaashi purses his lips. “That’s too bad, pain-in-the-ass Kuroo-san,” he says with all the sincerity he can muster. “I liked him.”

 

“Yeah, I know you did.”

 

He drowns out Kuroo with a soft humming. “Sugawara-saaaan.” He sings the name over and over again to a tune he’d heard once on the radio. It rolls off his heavy tongue and into the air much to the chargin of the the obviously heartbroken Kuroo. Akaashi giggles, laughter bubbling like a song, but when he looks to his friend, his heart falls to his chest. 

 

Akaashi knows Suga and Kuroo weren’t made to last. It had only been a matter of time. 

 

Softer this time, he whispers, “Carry me home, my prince.”

 

Bokuto’s strong arms sweep him up and off the couch. He murmurs things that Akaashi can’t quite catch over the pounding in his ears and the humming from his lips. Everything blurs. Black and tan and gold blend together and Akaashi blinks it away. 

 

He’s being moved before he knows it, sockless feet in the air, draped with care over Bokuto’s forearms. “Bye bye, Kuroo-san!” he exclaims with a smile so bright. 

 

Akaashi’s mind is empty, devoid of thought and controlled only by his senses. Sober Akaashi has never been a tactile person but Drunk Akaashi…

 

“Bokuto-san, how often do you work out?” he asks, poking at Bokuto’s bicep, knowing the answer. His gaze falls just past Bokuto’s curious face and he realizes he’s been brought outside, onto the street. The darkness swallows them and colors Bokuto’s face in deep shadows. He's gorgeous like this. 

 

Akaashi’s been taking an English literature class, the past month having been spent bent over textbooks crudely translating Shakespearean sonnets. The words are beauty; artfully crafted, Akaashi can tell, but it’s so hard to interpret sometimes. 

 

That’s how it is now, lying in Bokuto’s arms. Mind muddled, even baffled by the beauty in front of him. Akaashi reaches up. His thumb caresses Bokuto’s cheekbones, right under his golden eyes. They shine like the stars in the dark. 

 

Akaashi sighs. 

 

He sees such light in Bokuto, such compassion and grace that only lives in his spirit. It draws Akaashi nearer to him, curling up to him as close as possible. 

 

He lays his head down on Bokuto’s chest, feels the steady beat, and lets himself revel in the moment. His eyes grow heavy. His limbs go limp. He thinks of Shakespeare, of Hamlet and Horatio. He thinks of Kuroo’s love drunk smile. He thinks of of pure and unbridled joy. 

 

“Goodnight, sweet prince,” Akaashi whispers, lulling his head to the side and falling into the deep throws of sleep, right there in Bokuto’s arms. 

  
  


-

  
  


Christmas is two weeks away and that means perpetual cold and hours upon hours of outdoor wedding photography with frozen fingertips. Last year, Kuroo bought Akaashi a pair of sleek leather gloves to match his work suit, but he couldn’t find them this morning. 

 

And now Akaashi stands, perched on the ground and aiming the lens up at the embracing couple before him, both too caught up in each other to do a proper pose. Akaashi doesn’t mind, candid shots always make for better pictures, so he just snaps away, adjusting his body so as not to soak his entire backside in the snow. 

 

“Atsuji-san, put your left hand on his bicep,” he instructs, lowering the camera to motion Hinata toward him. 

 

“Would you go get my data pad from the van, Hinata-kun?” he asks, watching the intern’s face fall at the mundane task he had been assigned. “I need to make sure that Haiba-san and Matsukawa-san will be here on time to help with reception photos.” 

 

“Yes sir,” Hinata shouts with a quick bow and he’s off before Akaashi can mutter his thanks in reply. 

 

He shrugs and looks back to the happy couple, lifting the camera back up. A smile plays at his lips when he  _ knows _ he’s caught the perfect lens flare off of their matching gold rings. 

 

“Can we get a kiss?” Akaashi calls out and the couple before him smiles brightly, nodding with enthusiasm before going in for a prolonged, yet chaste kiss. He captures every second of it, every crinkling laughter in the corners of their eyes, every giddy breath. 

 

Akaashi would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy this part of his job. It never gets old, no matter how many weddings he photographs, it always manages to tug at his heartstrings and sometimes when he watches the exchange of vows, a tear or two may slip out

 

His ring finger throbs in scabbed over pain. 

 

“You two can go get prepared for the ceremony,” Akaashi says quietly, looking up to the two lovers embracing. “We’ll take care of the rest.”

 

The pair nods together, taking off toward the shrine with their hands entwined and swinging as they walk. Akaashi looks on with bittersweet memories swirling through his head. Idly, he wonders what Ennoshita is doing at the moment. 

 

“Akaashi-saaaan,” comes that yowling chirp, signaling Hinata’s presence. He’s a blur of black and orange until he skids to stop right in front of Akaashi. Mud and snow kicks up from under his pristine dress shoes before he stops, holding out Akaashi’s data pad with such energy that it’s not clear whether it’s the device vibrating or Hinata himself. 

 

“You’ve got an incoming voice call!” he screeches. Not five seconds later he’s pulled away by Hanamaki to help elsewhere. 

 

Akaashi blinks up, bleary eyes tracing the unmistakable characters with shock slowly sweeping across his expression.

 

Bokuto Koutarou. 

 

It shouldn’t be a shock. Akaashi had been the first to establish contact, reaching out through a text, but it hits him like a ton of bricks. His chest constricts. He tries to control the gasp that escapes him, tries to calm the shaking of his hands but they quiver on their accord as Akaashi swipes up to answer the call. 

 

“Agaaashi?” that wonderfully inquisitive voice asks, timid yet forward all in the same breath. “Is this Akaashi Keiji?”

 

He considers not answering, just listening to the breath coming through the phone, but he can’t because that would be  _ fucking creepy, Gods Keiji _ , so he just lets silence fall for a few moments. Enough for him to clutch his hand to his chest and count four beats.  _ One. Two. Three. Four.  _

 

“Hello, yes,” Akaashi says. “This is Akaashi Keiji.”

 

“Oh my gods! It’s really you!” A burst of ecstatic laughter bubbles over the line. “I thought I got the wrong guy!”

 

And Akaashi almost let himself forget just how much of an airhead the boy really is. An amused smile betrays the monotony of his voice. “How many other Akaashi Keiji’s do you know, Bokuto-san?”

 

“Ahgggg!” Bokuto yowls and Akaashi can see him in his mind's eye, fingers pulling on his hair and he tilts back. “I’m sorry Akaashi.”

 

A fond grin takes over Akaashi’s face. “That’s quite alright.” He pauses, brushes the snow off his pants. “I’m at work now, but it’s good to hear from you.” 

 

He’s almost surprised at the genuinity laced in his tone. 

 

“Awe geez, I’m sorry,” Bokuto says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything!” 

 

Same old Bokuto. Always loud, apologetic but not in the same instance. He seems static, like a ghost from the past but Akaashi knows Bokuto has changed so much since they last talked. 

 

“The grooms just left, so I’m not busy,” Akaashi chuckles, “promise.”

 

“Oh, that good! What do you do at your job?”

 

He shrugs his shoulders inward, feeling a sudden drop in self confidence. He remembers how much Bokuto despises small talk. He used to say he was “just freaking terrible at small talk, Akaashi!” whenever he complained about his failed dates. 

 

“Wedding photographer,” he replies tersely. “Listen I have to go, but can we still meet up for coffee?” Belatedly, he realizes the contradiction. He’d just told Bokuto he wasn’t busy, but now he can’t do it. He can’t stand to talk to Bokuto without seeing the man’s face. 

 

Before he can help it, he tacks on, “I’d like to see you.” It sounds awfully close to the unspoken,  _ I miss you.  _

 

“That sounds amazing!” Bokuto exclaims. “Did you know that Kuroo’s hot ex Suga has a cafe near my gym?” 

 

Akaashi laughs at that. “I frequent that cafe, Bokuto-san, though I didn’t know it was near your gym.”

 

“Yeah we’ve been going there recently so Sawamura can stalk Suga.” There’s a very pregnant pause, an awkward silence and Akaashi just knows Bokuto is fiddling with his bracelet right about now. “It’s a long story, but uh, we can talk about it? When you’re free? I’m free on Saturdays cause that’s my rest day and I get to eat whatever I want and it won’t count cause my trainer won’t yell at me! It’s great!”

 

Same old Bokuto. So very bad at small talk. Akaashi  _ giggles  _ with a  _ snort _ and it’s not even that funny but it’s Bokuto. 

 

“Saturday is good, Bokuto-san,” he says with a smile. “We can meet up for lunch? Sugawara-san has great wraps.”

 

“Of course!”

 

“I’ll, uh, text you with the time.”

 

“Yeah sure.”

 

They breathe together for a few moments. It takes all the will power in Akaashi to move the data pad away from his face and slide the button down. 

 

“Good bye, Akaashi-kun,” Bokuto murmurs. 

 

The  _ kun _ is new, soft and gentle like Akaashi’s never heard before. 

 

“Goodbye, Bokuto-san.” 

 

With reluctance, he hangs up, ignoring the tingling in his gut and the heat high on his cheekbones. 

 

-

 

“That’s your date skirt,” Kiyoko says point blank. Her expression is calculating, unreadable as she sets down a potted succulent on Akaashi’s counter. It’s unnerving, almost terrifying the way she stares at him. 

 

She’s absolutely right, too. It is his date skirt; the long flowing black skirt that Akaashi wears on all first dates. The same skirt he wears as a test to whether his potential suitors can be tolerant of his occasional femininity. The very skirt clinging to his hips and draping around his thighs. 

 

The very skirt he’s wearing two hours before going to go meet Bokuto. 

 

“It is,” Akaashi confirms with a nod. He keeps his expression resolutely firm, the light blush across his cheeks betraying him. 

 

Kiyoko has this certain aura to her that draws out one's innermost thoughts, this pull to her that leads to contemplation and it always hits Akaashi at the most opportune moments. “Okay,” she says breezily. 

 

It pisses Akaashi off. 

 

Because now he can’t stop thinking about the damn skirt. Why would he even wear it in the first place? He had physically dragged it out of his extensive collection of clothing, sorting through dozens of acceptable pants and skirts. Why? Why did he care so much? Why woul-

 

Kiyoko sets down another potted plant. And then two of those pretty rocks she likes to collect.  Akaashi opens his mouth to speak but she cuts him off. 

 

“I-“

 

“Ennoshita-san requested that I come check up on you,” she explains. 

 

It makes sense. She had always been closer with Ennoshita anyway. That doesn’t make it sting less.  

 

“Rose quartz and blue lace agate for anxiety. A panda plant and an aloe plant because your shelves look a bit bare…” A blatant lie, of course. Akaashi’s kitchen windowsill is full of plants, overflowing with green shoots reaching for the light, all courtesy of Kiyoko. 

 

“I have too many plants,” he argues weakly. 

 

“There’s no such thing as too many plants, Akaashi-kun,” she says simply, quietly. She turns on her heel to place the two newest additions to his plant family on the windowsill. “Hitoka wanted you to have them.”

 

Akaashi nods. He leans forward onto the counter and studies Kiyoko. Her visit had been a shock, a last minute drop by on her way over to Yachi’s plant nursery, the last thing Akaashi would’ve expected from today. He narrows his eyes. 

 

“Why are you really here, Kiyoko-san?”

 

She pivots, eyebrows raised in surprise. “I said Ennoshita-san…”

 

“You could’ve texted me.” 

 

A sudden chill runs down his spine. He watches the snowfall outside, refusing to meet Kiyoko’s gaze. He  _ can’t.  _ He feels as if he’s smoldering under her, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip. She’s deciding if Akaashi can handle the truth or not. 

 

It stings even more. 

 

“Akaashi-kun, I don’t know if it’s my right to tell you this,” she says uneasily. “But…”

 

She smooths her hands against her pants and Akaashi readies himself for a blow. 

 

“Ennoshita-san knew you didn’t love him anymore. I think the proposal was a last ditch effort to… salvage your relationship.” 

 

Akaashi huffs out a breath. “So everyone knew but me.”

 

Kiyoko makes a small noise of agreement, walking around the counter until she’s right next to Akaashi. She flips him over by his shoulder and takes Akaashi’s hands in her own. It’s strangely intimate, almost comforting. 

 

“What I’m trying to say here, Akaashi-kun,” she says, “you shouldn’t feel guilty.” With a gesture towards his skirt and knowing glint in her eye, Akaashi understands. 

 

With a gulp, he shoves the nervousness and the fluttery feeling down to his stomach. 

 

“Thank you,” Akaashi says and he means it. 

 

-

 

Akaashi had arrived fifteen minutes early with the knowledge that Bokuto is a chronic late comer. Or he used to be anyway. Maybe a stable career had changed him. 

 

He sits at a table right by the window, iced coffee clutched in his grip, sweating cold water onto his fingertips. He makes no move to let go of it. In a way, the coolness soothes his nerves. 

 

To quell his anxieties, he takes to watching the soft bustle of Suga’s cafe, how incredibly homey it feels. It’s exactly the way Suga envisioned it. “I want it to be a place you can come home to,” he had once said to Akaashi, one of those rare occasions where he wasn’t so entangled in Kuroo. “A place where I know everyone’s regular order and it always smells like cinnamon…” 

 

And while Suga’s romanticized idea of owning a hole in the wall shop in Kuramae hadn’t always gone as planned, it’s incredibly rewarding to see one of his friends’ dreams fully realized, though the smell in the air is closer to vanilla and Suga still can’t remember Akaashi’s “regular”. Even though his bed in the upstairs apartment is a ratty futon. Even though he has bags under his eyes from waking up every morning to bake bread. 

 

He lifts his gaze to watch Suga hand a couple of high school students a bag of fresh melonpan. The smile on face is distinct, genuine. It tells Akaashi that all the hardship had been worth it. 

 

A few moments pass. The high schoolers walk out and the shop lapses into silence, only the quiet murmur of music filling the air. Akaashi steadily drums his hands against the counter and waits. 

 

Without second thought, Akaashi flicks his eyes up and meets wide, golden irises. 

 

Time freezes. Akaashi doesn’t know how, but everything happens in slow motion. Pale lashes blink away snow, high arched eyebrows drawn up in delight. Chapped lips part, rough and uneven, and call out loud enough to shake the ground. “Akaashi!”

 

In the years to come, Akaashi will remember all the tiny details. He’ll remember how the snow pelts down outside, the F.C. Tokyo jacket slung around Bokuto’s broad shoulders, his hair tied back with little droplets of melted ice running down his temples. Akaashi will remember the feeling deep within his chest, the hammering of his heart and the inexplicable peace that washes over him at the sight of his long lost friend. 

 

Akaashi is too young to know the weight of these few seconds, too naive to recognize the tilt of the world on its very axis. 

 

“Bokuto-san,” he breathes out. 

 

Bokuto responds with an immediate smile that splits his face in half and steals the breath from Akaashi’s lungs. 

 

_ Oh.  _

 

“I’m gonna…” Bokuto starts, pointing at Suga and Akaashi nods. He’s been waiting long enough, he can stand a few more minutes. 

 

Akaashi takes again to watching, enraptured by the way Bokuto picks up immediate conversation with Suga. He throws his head backwards in boisterous laughter, tainted in the rich hues of mochas and caramels, untouched by the monochrome outside. Akaashi is stricken. He’s always stricken by Bokuto. 

 

Soon, his companion turns back to the table, a warm drink cradled in his hands. He still has most of his winter gear on, the last remaining bit of snow from the outside clinging to the corners of his jacket. He smiles and plops down across from Akaashi. 

 

“Hello, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says politely. 

 

“Akaashi!” he replies brightly. “How are you today?”

 

“I’m fine.”  _ Ecstatic, shaken, anything but fine.  _ “How about you?”

 

“Oh well, I’m pretty good! I didn’t have to get up early for practice so I got to sleep in until ten but Nishinoya woke me up so I couldn’t  _ actually  _ sleep in. Apparently, he broke part of the wall practicing sets against it.”

 

And off Bokuto goes, running his mouth with tireless vigor. It’s just like how things used to be except Akaashi can’t help but be endeared. He leans into his palm and sips lazily at his drink. 

 

“Who’s Nishinoya?” he inquires. 

 

“He was Karasuno’s libero in high school and he’s Yakkun’s alternate! Also my roommate! He’s super cool! He has this lizard named Kimi who escapes all the time so our landlord isn’t really fond of us…”

 

Bokuto still talks with his hands. He mimes out a lizard scuttling with his fingers on the table. Akaashi can’t help but smile warmly. Bokuto’s enthusiasm is infectious as it always has been. 

 

And then abruptly. 

 

“How are you and Ennoshita-kun?”

 

Akaashi snaps his gaze up. Defensiveness takes precedence over sadness, and he glares at Bokuto until he gently reminds himself that his companion hadn’t known. 

 

“We broke up, recently,” Akaashi tells him with a tremor in his voice that he despises. He’s not here to earn Bokuto’s pity but with the way his eyebrows pinch in, Akaashi knows he’s already gotten it. 

 

“Oh gods Akaashi, that’s awful!” Bokuto exclaims with the utmost sincerity. 

 

Akaashi nods, gives a gentle, reassuring smiles. Bokuto’s right, it is awful, but…

 

“It’s okay,” he says, “I’m alright.” And it’s not a lie. “How’s your team doing this year?” 

 

“You haven’t been watching!?” Bokuto’s smile drops and Akaashi immediately shrinks into himself. 

 

“I-I’ve been bus-“

 

“Haha, just kidding, it’s okay! We’ve been doing really good! Next week we’re facing those bastard Arrows…”

 

Bokuto wastes no time launching into a tale of rivalry between the two teams. He speaks with a fire in his eyes and passion in his voice that Akaashi has never heard before. Between bites of an ordered chocolate scone and sips of decaf, Bokuto describes the season in great detail, how the Toray Arrows keep on beating them, every other week. “And it’s all cause of that asshole Sakusa! He’s just too good!” It’s also because “Tooru-chan” is out on a knee injury and Bokuto’s trying his absolute hardest to work with the team’s younger, grouchy setter. 

 

“He’s worse than you were, Akaashi! He’s so mean and always talks about my ‘lack of technique’ or whatever. He’s so rude! He doesn’t toss to me if I’m not hitting well!”

 

“Does he treat his other spikers like that?” Akaashi inquires. 

 

Bokuto tilts his head to the side. “Well not Iwaizumi but I think it’s cause he’s got a little puppy crush on him.”

 

“And the other spikers?”

 

A look of confusion crosses over Bokuto’s face. And then he catches on. “Oh, it’s nothing like that Akaashi, he’s just really mean. Besides Nishinoya said he’d kick anyone’s ass if they had a problem with me on like, the first day of practice.”

 

Akaashi lets out a breath he hasn’t known he was holding. “That’s good,” he says with a sigh of relief. 

 

And then, quieter. “I’m glad you have someone on your side.”

 

Those wide, golden eyes become round with an emotion Akaashi can’t quite read. “Well, it wasn’t all that easy at first, but everything worked out! I don’t think anyone on the team like  _ hates  _ me but there are a few that are kinda cold to me. Daichi is nice though! He says that there’s no room for hate on his team. Miura is an asshole anyway. He used to talk about how I didn’t belong on the team or whatever but if anything,” Bokuto leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper, “he’s a terrible wing spiker and I think he’s just jealous.”

 

They both snicker at that, Akaashi hiding his smile behind his hand. He watches Bokuto do the same, except he doesn’t hide his amusement. He laughs with his entire chest moving, his figure lit on fire with joy. 

 

It strikes Akaashi that he’d like to see Bokuto play. He never got the chance to when his friend was first recruited. After that, Akaashi just... couldn’t. 

 

“I’ve never been to an F.C Tokyo match,” Akaashi admits. 

 

Bokuto takes the bait with a scandalized gasp. “Oh my gods, Akaashi you have to come see us play. The Arrows are gonna be here next weekend! You have to come see!” He grabs Akaashi’s hands with the most earnest look. Akaashi ignores the tingling in his gut. 

 

They continue to talk. Bokuto’s sweeping stories about his team are juxtaposed by Akaashi’s quiet retellings about his job as a wedding photographer. All the while, Akaashi is reminded of the stark contrast in their lives, the one that’s always been there. Bokuto Koutarou, the brave boy whose voice carried thunder and Akaashi Keiji, the silent fury. 

 

He is again struck with longing. He wants to be apart of that storm once again. 

 

They are abruptly cut off when Matsukawa calls, shrieking about how they need an extra photographer and Jin is out of town, Akaashi being the only one with enough experience to take his place. He apologizes profusely to Bokuto, bowing low with the promise that he’ll text later on to ask about tickets to next week’s game. 

 

He’s rewarded by Bokuto’s calm reassurance and a bright smile that could light up Tokyo amid the grey of winter. 

 

Five minutes after Akaashi teps out of Suga’s shop, he gets a text. 

 

_ From: Bokuto Koutarou  _

 

_ I cut a deal with coach n got u free tickets! u have to go with one of my friends tho cuz i cant get just one  _

 

_ To Bokuto Koutarou:  _

 

_ That would be perfect, Bokuto-san.  _

 

_ - _

 

Akaashi doesn’t really know what he was supposed to expect arriving at the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium, but he certainly doesn’t anticipate the sheer volume of the crowd. He thinks back to the time when Fukurodani had gotten free tickets to see a match, how little the arena had seemed, how relatively empty the upper seats were. 

 

Immediately, he’s swept into the busy crowd and it’s striking, the way that some F.C. Tokyo fans have pink, white, and blue flags attached to their bags and rainbow streaked across their cheeks. Akaashi smiles to himself, warmth welling up in the pit of his stomach. 

 

His data pad gives a loud buzz in his coat pocket. He leans against a nearby wall to check it. 

 

_ From Bokuto Koutarou:  _

 

_ just about to start warm ups! tooru-chan is waiting by the west gate!! he’s tall n looks like a male model n probably gonna be wearing a bunch of iwaizumi merch _

 

_ oh he just sent me a snap here’s what he looks like! _

 

_ Image attached _

 

The incessant pushing of the crowd forces Akaashi to keep walking. He glances down to the screen and finds himself staring at a rather handsome man with chocolate brown hair and rainbow colors painted high on his cheekbones. He thinks he remembers the man from sports drink packages, but he doesn’t quite know. 

 

He’s pushed through the ticket scanners, holding his data pad out while he contemplates exactly  _ how much  _ he doesn’t know about Bokuto or volleyball. He tries to reason with himself. He had just been to busy too busy, even though he knows in his heart that he was just looking away. A revolution in volleyball had been happening with Bokuto at the center of it all, twenty minutes away from Akaashi’s apartment and he had been completely ignorant to it. 

 

From there, he’s herded around toward the main foyer. The greasy tang of stadium food hangs in the air as people crowd around different merchandise stands, handing vendors bills and coins with no abandon. The noise makes Akaashi’s head spin as he walks toward a less busy stand to further investigate. 

 

It’s only fate that it’s a magazine stand, a handful of volleyball memoirs and copies of  _ Volleyball Monthly  _ on display. Akaashi thumbs through a couple, shifting around until his hands find something he hadn’t known he was looking for. 

 

_ Bokuto Koutarou:  _ the cover reads  _ The Revolution of Volleyball in Japan _ . The jacket art features Bokuto going up for a spike, the lighting around his head resembling an angel’s halo. He opens the cover to a random page and skims through, eyes widening at each word. 

 

_ F.C. Tokyo had once been one of the worst teams in Japan’s V-League. Their 2017-18 season resulted in 3 wins and 25 loses, causing the head coach to quit and the team to lie dormant. In 2021, the team’s rights were bought for a relatively small price by openly gay business man, Fujiwara Daiki.  _

 

_ Fujiwara-san revolutionized the team alongside husband and current head coach Nakano Kousei. Among his most controversial and successful endeavors was scouting famed transgender athlete Bokuto Koutarou to play on the 2022 starting lineup alongside Sawamura Daichi, Iwaizumi Hajime, Oikawa Tooru, and Yaku Morisuke, all of whom were queer.  _

 

_ This outrageous move not only brought newfound popularity to volleyball, as fans flocked to Tokyo in support of the team, but a new wave of queer acceptance in Japanese sporting that spread across the world. F.C. Tokyo now has a cult-like, international following, with fifteen out of forty-three players eligible for Olympic trials.  _

 

Akaashi is breathless. His mind races, processing every line until his hands begin to tremble. With rapidly blinks, he pulls a few bills from his pocket and pays for the book. 

 

Words spin around in his head.  _ Famed transgender athlete. Revolutionized. Queer acceptance.  _ Pride. The only thing Akaashi can feel in the very pit of his stomach is pure and unadulterated pride. He thinks about summer nights at training camps, sweat pouring down his face as he sets yet another ball for Bokuto. 

 

Bokuto wanted to prove them wrong, to rise above and succeed despite the hardships. Looking around, Akaashi realizes that he’s done that. 

 

And Akaashi had missed it all. 

 

A light tap hits his shoulder and Akaashi whips around fast enough to whirl the fabric of his skirt upward. “Yahoo!” says a light airy voice. “You must be the fabled Keiji-kun!” He clutches the book close to his chest and follows long spindly fingers up to perfect chocolate waves and multicolored face paint, crudely concealed by large sunglasses and an ugly brown beanie.

 

Akaashi doesn’t hide the scowl because he can already tell how much of an asshole this guy must be, wondering exactly what gives him the audacity to call him by his  _ given name. _

 

“Akaashi-san,” he corrects, holding out his hand. “And you are?”

 

Akaashi knows fully well that the man in front of him is the same Oikawa mentioned in the book. He takes indulgence in the way Oikawa’s face splits into a pout.

 

“Oikawa Tooru,” he grits. “Bokkun failed to inform me that you were  _ mean _ .” His voice pitches up several octaves in a way the makes Akaashi chuckle behind his hand.

 

“My apologies. To be fair, Bokuto-san failed to inform me that I would be babysitting all day.”

 

“Rude, Keiji-kun!”

 

They stare at each other for a couple moments until Akaashi breaks down into giggles. Oikawa mirrors him, doubling over with laughter until he has to lean against the vendor’s table. Quite a start what he suspects is going to be an amazing friendship.

 

They fall into step next to one another, Oikawa limping just obvious enough for Akaashi to pick up on. He looks down to Oikawa’s leg, sees a knee brace, and finally makes the connection. Oikawa’s is the genius setter Bokuto had spoken of, the one with a severe tear in his ACL.

 

Oikawa notices him staring. Neither comment on it.

 

Entering the west gate, Oikawa breaks the silence by grabbing the book. 

 

“Oh my, what an interesting read,” he notes, flipping the cover over and thumbing at the picture of Bokuto. “Bokkun looks  _ delicious  _ here.” He licks his lips with an over exaggerated slurp that makes Akaashi grimace. 

 

“Oh don’t look at me like that! You know I’m the right.” Akaashi grimaces even more, going down the steps slowly for Oikawa’s sake. “Look they’re already warming up!”

 

Oikawa somehow steps in from of Akaashi and drags him by the hand down to their seats, right next to the court. Oikawa plops into his seat, taking Akaashi down with him, beginning to wolf whistle in the direction of the players. 

 

F.C Tokyo is on the right side of the court with an overwhelming fan section in back of them. Akaashi’s eyes widen. It’s a sea of rainbow colors. Pale pink and blue shine bright from flags and as Akaashi focuses of the players, he notices sweatbands with the same colors striped around their wrists. 

 

He struggles to find a steady breath. 

 

Oikawa pats his thigh with incessant squealing. “Look!” He shouts, pointing to one of the players, a tanned, dark haired wing spiker. “That’s my Iwa-chan!”

 

Iwaizumi Hajime, Akaashi supposes. He runs up the net and slams the ball down in a perfect spike, muscles rippling under his shirt as he haunches over to land. He turns on his heel and Akaashi notices a golden glint on his ring finger. 

 

Sure enough, he looks to Oikawa’s left hand and finds a matching gold band. 

 

“Don’t the refs tell him to take his ring off?” Akaashi murmurs quietly. 

 

“Keiji-kun, so observant!” Oikawa comments. “They do, but Iwa-chan never listens and no one really has the gall to tell him no a second time.”

 

The whistle blows and suddenly, warm ups are over. Akaashi finds himself sitting at the edge of his seat, eyes trained on the team, searching for Bokuto. Oikawa continues to make comments as the teams line up, but Akaashi barely hears it. 

 

“Hello everyone and welcome to our V-league showdown!” An announcer’s voice carries over the noise of the crowd until everyone is reduced to near silence. “Let us welcome this weekend’s challengers! The Toray Arrows!”

 

A cheer goes up as the opposing fan section behind to chant. Akaashi feels the energy in his veins. 

 

“And our defending champions, F.C Tokyo!”

 

The counter cheer is loud enough to ring in his ears. Colors dance before him. Swelled full of pride and vigor, Akaashi stands up and claps with the rest of the crowd. Oikawa, who moves to stand beside him, gives him a knowing glance. 

 

“Introducing our home team! F.C. Tokyo’s starting lineup.

 

“Captain, wing spiker, Sawamura Daichi!” Akaashi finds himself staring at Karasuno’s former captain in his fully realized glory. He’s all muscles and dark skin and inky hair, strong and sure as he walks calmly into the court. 

 

Oikawa cups his hands around his mouth. “Play well, otou-chan!” he screams, taking obvious delight in the way Sawamura blushes red and hides his face in his jersey. 

 

“Middle blocker, Wantannabe Taisei!” A pale man with a light brown undercut runs onto the court to stand behind Sawamura. A snort escapes Akaashi when the man gives Sawamura’s behind a solid pat. It seems as if the team’s main purpose is to embarrass their poor captain. 

 

A rather tall, fresh faced man walks out to join the rest, a disinterested scowl on his lips. “Middle blocker, Naoyasu Kuguri!”

 

Iwaizumi and a younger setter named Kageyama are called onto the court. Wild cheers erupt afterward and the air thrums with an expectant energy. Only seconds before the tension snaps, does Akaashi realize that the ace and libero have yet to be called. 

 

“Ace, wing spiker, Bokuto Koutarou!”

 

Akaashi would have mistaken the crowd as a king's calvary had he not known better. They explode into wild shouts in a way that only Bokuto can inspire in others. 

 

Akaashi’s eyes dart around, impatient, searching. Next to him, Oikawa whispers in his ear, “You’re gonna love this next part.”

 

The fan section falls silent; Akaashi looks on with wide eyes. They’re all turned toward a doorway in the far right corner of the gymnasium, thrumming with energy. 

 

Out comes Bokuto, and with him, a wall of sound. He runs in with a smile spread across his cheeks and arms out wide. His presence is a warm embrace that makes Akaashi clutch his fist close to his chest. He turns around once on his heels, golden irises shining so radiant under the artificial light of the gym. 

 

A group of girls in the fan section fold a banner over the ledge and when Akaashi reads it, he can’t help the tears that sting the corners of his eyes. 

 

_ Fly on, Bokuto-san.  _

 

_ - _

 

Fukurodani’s gym stands before them, wide and inviting. It’s a sight Akaashi is all too familiar with, but to the boy holding his hand as if it were his lifeline, everything is new. 

 

He had requested to come in after warm ups, just for the first week. He’s nervous about the locker rooms and the stares; he needs to prove himself to the rest of the boys first and Akaashi knows that all too well. 

 

“Relax,” Akaashi whispers. “Everything will be okay.” He says it with such confidence, but he doesn’t really know if that’ll be the truth. He can’t even begin to imagine how the more elitist upperclassmen are going to take to Bokuto’s presence. It’s nerve racking, shaking Akaashi to his core and he can’t begin to think about how Bokuto must be feeling. 

 

“I’m good ‘Kaashi!” He exclaims, buckling and unbuckling the strap of his leather bracelet. His voice echos loud enough to draw the attention of a few first years. Akaashi thinks he sees Aoki’s mouth drop into a scowl. 

 

His grip tightens around Bokuto’s fingers. He narrows his eyes, wondering if he looks as intimidating as he feels. Probably not, he’s the shortest first year who’s not in line to be a libero, but it doesn’t matter. If anyone  _ dares _ to mess with Bokuto, they’d have to face Akaashi first. 

 

That’s only if Bokuto needs it, of course, he’s a perfectly capable young man, not defined by his condition or his disadvantages and doesn’t need Akaashi to take care of-

 

“Hey, Konoha!” Bokuto calls out. 

 

He jogs forward to bump shoulders with a tired looking blond second year and for a second Akaashi starts to gnaw on his nails as he wait for some sort of backlash. 

 

Instead, Konoha’s face lightens up as he punches Bokuto’s chest. Then the libero in training turns on his heel, as well as a tall middle blocker and another second year wing spiker. They all gather around him, jostling him and ruffling his hair and Akaashi finds himself incredulous. This is the same boy who had claimed he had no friends to eat lunch with. 

 

Perhaps all the anxieties had only been coming from the recesses of Bokuto’s mind. Or Akaashi’s mind. 

 

“Akaashi! Toss for me!” Bokuto motions him over with his arm and the crowd around him shakes their heads. Akaashi doesn’t volunteer to set during drills. He wouldn’t want any of his upperclassmen to feel like he was trying to usurp their positions. 

 

The pull that Bokuto has on him is too strong to say no. 

 

Many of his first year peers state with open surprise as he asks Kobayashi to set for the next drill with a polite bow. The captain, stunned by his willingness to participate agrees with a laugh and then Akaashi is thrown headfirst into the drill. 

 

It’s harder than expected, but Akaashi smiles, just slightly. It’s worth everything to see Bokuto waiting in the back of the line, bouncing on his toes, ready to show off that extreme cut shot of his that he’d been working on with Akaashi after their practices let out. 

 

When he’s at the front, the entire gym seems to have stopped to watch. The coaches, the captain, the upperclassmen all stare without trying to hide their curiosity. 

 

And their judgement. 

 

Akaashi lowers his eyelids until the only thing he can see is Bokuto. 

 

Here is the part where Bokuto has to prove himself. 

 

That he does, and then some. 

 

He starts with his run up, muscles rippling beneath his shirt as he draws his arms back in the captivating way that always captures Akaashi in a trance. 

 

He’s  _ beautiful.  _ It’s the only word to capture him. A bird in flight. He springs off the ground and flies on and on and on…

 

The ball bounces off Akaashi’s fingertips and it makes that perfect sound that lets the both of them know that they’ve got this. A feral smile crawls up Bokuto’s face and Akaashi can’t help but mirror it. 

 

A triple block comes up. It had only been a single for everyone else. 

 

Bokuto’s right arm comes down, slamming the ball down at an extremely steep angle, landing in just out of the libero’s reach. 

 

Aoki scowls no longer, his mouth wide open. The coaches are on their feet, eyes open and disbelieving. Every person’s eye is on them but Akaashi can only look at Bokuto. 

 

“Hey, hey, hey!” he crows, throwing his head back with jubilant cheers. “That was a really good one, Agaashee!” It’s his same reaction to every good spike, as if he hadn’t just proven his place on the team.

 

Akaashi’s chest swells with pride. “Of course, Bokuto-san.”

 

-

 

The fifth set is always the worst. Akaashi’s not sure his frail heart can take anymore, which is ironic because in the scheme of things this game means almost nothing in regard to the upcoming playoffs. F.C. Tokyo is up, 17-16, pushed into a deuce with the Arrows not relenting. Beside him, Oikawa sits at the edge of his chair, screaming with voice ran hoarse from screaming. “Go Hajime!”

 

Iwaizumi’s jump serve just barely goes over the net, hitting the net and falling to the Arrow’s waiting libero. It goes straight into a perfect quick from Sakusa, but Yaku picks it up with the ease only capable of such a seasoned libero. 

 

Only then, does Akaashi realize the toss is heading straight toward Bokuto. 

 

Bokuto arches back, drawing all the strength into his right arm and slamming it down in a perfect straight. The ball flies through the blockers, hitting the floor so fast that Akaashi barely had time to blink before the rest of the team is crowding around Bokuto, shouts and smiles everywhere. The sight steals Akaashi’s breath from his lungs. He watches in wonder as the scoreboard flips up one. F.C. Tokyo has won. 

 

Bokuto beams amidst his fellow teammates. There’s no fear in his eyes, no insecurity, just pure elation and Akaashi sees for a moment that everything leading up to this has been worth it. 

 

Bokuto shines brighter than the sun. 

 

Oikawa tugs at his sleeve. “Let’s go! I’ll get us in the locker room!” and before any protest can be made, Akaashi is dragged through the crowd and toward the West Gate while the crowd stays to celebrate the victory. He’d like to stay and watch Bokuto soak up the attention, he had always shone the brightest when completed, but even more than that he wants to compliment Bokuto himself. It had been one of the most fun and intense matches he ever watched. 

 

It takes a few minutes to push through the crowd and eventually the foyer floods with fans, signaling the retreat of both teams. He follows Oikawa to a private door just behind a few of the vendors. Oikawa lifts his data pad, presumably to scan his id number, and it beeps and opens for them. From there, they travel down a few flights of stairs until they’re greeted by the sound of a muffled rap beat and yet another locked door. 

 

And finally,  _ finally _ he gets to greet Bokuto only, he’s completely shirtless. 

 

Akaashi’s mouth goes cotton dry. 

 

A harem of shirtless, sweaty men gather around the newcomers with curious gazes and Akaashi thinks that the oncoming panic in his chest is solely because of the proximity of so many handsome men. Curse his useless gay heart. 

 

“B-Bokuto-san,” he attempts to speak. 

 

“Tooru, what did I tell you about bringing fans down here!” Yaku scolds, the only man decent enough to have worn a shirt, but still in his compression shorts. A few more heads peak around the corner at the sound of his voice and Akaashi wishes that the ground would swallow him whole. 

 

“I-“

 

“This is Akaashi you guys!” Bokuto leaps to his defense, throwing his extremely beefy bicep around Akaashi’s shoulder. He smells like drying sweat and it’s disgusting but somehow hot. Gods curse his  _ useless gay heart.  _

 

“So this is Akaashi-san?” Iwaizumi says with a quirk of his brow. Akaashi pushes his shoulders inward and he really can’t decide whether or not to be insecure about his noodley arms in comparison to Iwaizumi’s bulging biceps which fold over a heavily tattooed chest. He thinks he spots Oikawa’s name in kanji right over his heart. 

 

Everything is so hot and gay; Akaashi needs to escape immediately. 

 

“Y-yes I’m Akaashi Keiji. You all played wonderfully. Thank you for inviting me Bokuto-san, I have work tomorrow I really should get-“

 

“No can do, Keiji-kun,” Oikawa says, coming up behind him and throwing his arm around Akaashi’s unoccupied side. “I believe it’s Bokkun’s turn to buy a bottle.”

 

“It’s always my turn!” Bokuto protests loudly. 

 

Akaashi’s sweating problem is becoming apparent by the droplets on his forehead. He can barely control himself sober, gods forbid even a little tipsy. 

 

“Really, I have to be up early,” he mutters quietly. 

 

In swoops his savior, Daichi Sawamura, who’s fully clothed and perhaps the only voice of reason amidst this team. “We have practice tomorrow in the morning and if any of you come in hungover, you’re staying an extra hour to clean the locker rooms.” A few dissatisfied grumbles resound through the room as a few start to make their way toward the showers. 

 

“I’m not sure Bokuto’s wallet can take any more hard hits,” Iwaizumi jokes, turning on his heel and taking Oikawa with him. 

 

Yaku scoffs. “Olympic Hopeful-san can handle the hit I’m sure.”

 

“You’re in trials too!” Bokuto retorts. Akaashi muffles a quiet laugh. 

 

Sawamura clears the area with a few more waves of his hand, yelling after Oikawa and Iwaizumi that “shower sex in public locker rooms is illegal, you animals!” to which Oikawa squeaks, “Coward!” in reply. 

 

“Is this how it always is?” Akaashi asks, ducking out from under his arm. He blinks a few times to see Bokuto’s intense golden gaze focused on him. 

 

Bokuto smiles, red pleasantly crawling up his cheeks in such an endearing way. “It’s usually worse,” he chuckles softly. “I have to shower but can I at least walk you to the train station?”

 

Akaashi nods. “That would be lovely.”

 

-

 

It takes a good half an hour for Bokuto to clean up, one of the last out of the locker room with Sawamura right behind him. It’s quite late by then, Akaashi feels it in the tightness under his tired eyes. Emerging from the staircase, a soft quiet settles over the scene. A few lingering fans wait around for Bokuto to sign merchandise, which he does with great enthusiasm, and then they leave, walking into the cold night with a bright satisfaction sitting deep in Akaashi’s chest. 

 

The walk is a short two minutes and soon it comes to pass that they must part. The train pulls up to the station when Akaashi whispers, “Thank you for inviting me. You played beautifully.”

 

Bokuto breaks into a grin, cheeks pink against the cold snowfall. He’s so bright, so  _ gorgeous.  _ “Oh thank you Akaashi! I hope you had fun!”

 

Akaashi nods and steps into Bokuto’s space. “Of course I did.”

 

“Yeah well I scored the winning point so I’ll have to take you along for drinks next time huh?” 

 

“You don’t have t-“

 

“I want to.” The earnest profession brings heat to his cheekbones and tremor to his arms, which have somehow become wrapped around Bokuto. 

 

The trains rolls to gentle stop and Akaashi doesn’t want to go. “Thank you, again.” He says, dipping his head in small bow and turning on his heel. 

 

Bokuto catches his hand, pulls him closer, and presses cold lips to his cheek. “Don’t be a stranger, Akaashi-kun.”

 

He doesn’t wait around for a response, but as Akaashi watches his broad back disappearing around the corner, he knows the answer had been apparent. 

 

Bringing scabbed fingers to his cheek, he stares into the night air. It’s just like high school and university, but this time around there’s nothing holding him back from admitting his feelings. Not even Kuroo’s potential disapproval could put out that fire in him. 

 

He has feelings for Bokuto. Long romantic, walks on the beach, kissing in the sunset type of feelings. 

 

Akaashi almost misses his train cupping his own face and contemplating the storm of emotion rising within. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Any views, kudos, and/or comments are appreciated.
> 
> Expect updates monthly from here on out.
> 
> If anyone is interested in beta'ing this fic, please dm me via Twitter (@ugliegay) for further details.


	3. guilt/forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Bokuto Koutarou
> 
> yo look at this weird bird i found near my jogging path 
> 
> Akaashi saves the picture, holds onto it like everything Bokuto says to him. A fond sigh escapes his lungs at the sudden and soft realization that’s he’s falling in love, all over again.
> 
> “Hello Tetsurou,” he says, smile apparent, cheeks burning.
> 
> “Someone’s happy,” Kuroo replies. He plops his long body on one of the spare chairs lying around.
> 
> Akaashi nods, doesn’t let his expression fall in the slightest. The back window is open, wintery breeze drifting through, but it’s not freezing. It’s fresh, light. Akaashi is light enough to float, he feels, and it shows.
> 
> “I am,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey crew how's everyone doing on this fine bokuaka of a day. i'm glad to have this published on time, shoutout to [murph](https://twitter.com/Freckled_Trash?lang=en) for the beta work.
> 
> for awhile i was debating between whether kuroo was chaotic stupid enough to name his cat neko-san. the answer is of course but also i thought it would funnier for kuroo to name has cat after kaneki ken. it didn't make the final cut but some lore for u all the actually read the author's notes, kuroo's gay awakening was kaneki therefore he named his cat after him. chaotic bastard.
> 
> tw for minor character death n brief internalized transphobia

“He didn’t fucking show,” Kuroo grunts, eye twitching as he seats himself on the steps of the temple. He reaches into his suit coat pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Kenma watches, the purple under his eyes standing out, stark against pale skin.

 

He says nothing, hasn’t said anything for months.

 

“Get that shit out of your mouth,” Daishou hisses, grabbing the cigarette hanging off of Kuroo’s lips.

 

Akaashi knows how badly Kuroo’s hurting; he doesn’t even fight back when Daishou crushes the entire box beneath his heel. Defeat weighs down his eyes, colored almost black in the snowy, grey afternoon light.

 

“She treated him like her own son,” he whispers to himself, hands shaking. Anger flashes over his features. “Fed him when he was hungry, consoled him on his bad days, and he doesn’t even fucking show up to her wake!”

 

Akaashi licks his lips, adjusts his tie, and lowers himself down next to Kuroo. “You know he’s bus-“

 

“I don’t give a fuck!” Kuroo shouts. He stands up, stray pebbles kicking up under his feet, fast enough to make Kenma flinch. “With all that she did for him, it’s the least he could’ve done!”

 

Kuroo crumbles into himself, poorly concealed sobs escaping his lips. Daishou, Akaashi, and Kenma watch, detached and helpless to his breakdown. He repeats it again, softer this time. “It’s the least he could’ve done.”

 

-

 

Akaashi wouldn’t consider himself terribly religious. His grandparents had been devout Buddhists, living near a tiny temple in rural Shizuoka, incredibly disappointed when their daughter Momoko ran off with the darling city boy Akaashi Isoa.

 

Akaashi idly wonders how they sleep at night knowing their daughter’s family is practically atheist and their most successful grandson loves men. He supposes he’ll never get to know, considering they don’t talk outside of family occasions but he can’t bring himself to care.

 

_To Akaashi Momoko_

 

_Are you going to the shrine today?_

 

He waits at his kitchen counter, watching the morning light dance on the new green shoots and the overgrown ferns. Kuroo and Kenma should arrive at any minute.

 

_From Akaashi Momoko_

 

_Naw your dad just came in so we’re staying home. Are you going?_

 

_To Akaashi Momoko_

 

_Yes. Kuroo and Kenma are taking me to Meiji and then we are going to visit Kozume-san afterwards._

 

There’s a knock at his door. Akaashi slips his shoes on and straps a bag to his back, a bright bundle of daffodils poking out from it. His footsteps echo in the hallway, empty and lonely but Akaashi likes to think he’s starting to get used to it. He wraps a scarf around his neck, lets out a tiny breath, and opens the door.

 

“Keiji, you look presentable today!” Kuroo comments, wide grin on his cheeks. He spins around on his heel, the edges of his black and gold yukata twirling upward. His hair is pulled back in a bun except for that puff of bangs that always hangs out. It reminds Akaashi of high school and the day after each of their graduations, when Kozume-san gifted them a beautiful yukata, hand woven by her own mother.

 

Kenma is wearing his as well, stark white and red with intricate patterns stitched into the cloth. His mouth remains unseen under a plain black surgical mask, but Akaashi’s sure of the bittersweet smile that lays underneath. He lifts his hands and waves.

 

“Hello Kenma,” Akaashi replies, ignoring Kuroo and his passive aggressive comments on his appearance. He walks out the door and locks it behind him. He wonders if he should’ve worn his own yukata from Kozume-san but he supposes his work suit will do.

 

“Keiji,” Kuroo whines, dropping his head onto Akaashi’s shoulder as they descend down a flight of stairs. “I brought you coffee on Tuesday and this is how you treat me?!”

 

“That was almost a week ago, Tetsurou,” Akaashi responds. He pushes the building door open and steps out into the bright light of day. He snickers as he watches Kenma shield his eyes.

 

His data pad buzzes one last time. He glances down and let’s himself smile at the message on the screen.

 

_From Akaashi Momoko_

 

_Love ya, Keiji. Give kozume-san some flowers for me_

 

They walk to the shrine even though Kenma has a perfectly good license and an equally useful car. Akaashi’s thighs ache from the workday before, all the running around in attempts to gather up a rather large family for a group photo. He’s exhausted, but not unhappy, grateful for the day off. He watches in contented silence as a crowd of teenagers pass them up, yelling about their wishes for the new year and the upcoming basketball tournament. It’s quiet, even amongst the noise.

 

That’s how it always is with Kenma. He doesn’t speak much, always observant, his harrowing yellow eyes peering out curiously under a cascade of dyed grey hair.

 

It stays like that for the entirety of the shrine visit. They stand amidst the mass of people at Meiji Shrine, waiting patiently to offer up their own prayers and wishes for the New Year. Akaashi thinks of high school again, Kuroo wishing for a new romance on Valentines Day, Bokuto hoping for certain victory as nationals, Kenma praying for peace and happiness.

 

As they move to write their own wishes for the New Year, Kuroo leans over to watch every stroke Akaashi makes on the ema.

 

“Do you mind?” Akaashi asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

 

“Nope!” Kuroo replies, nuzzling Akaashi’s face with a sloppy, wet kiss. Kenma grimaces and continues to write as Akaashi pushes his assailant away.

 

Akaashi closes his eyes, folds his hands in front of himself. He doesn’t want to let anyone know what he wrote down.

 

A wish for true love and peace.

 

 _Someone to come home to_ , he writes in smaller characters near the bottom. He hurries to a wall away from Kuroo and Kenma, ties the ema up behind other’s wishes. _Prosperity. Getting in to Kamii University. A beautiful wife._

 

And Akaashi supposes it’s the hopeless romantic in him that believes maybe, just maybe his prayers will be answered. It’s the part of him he thinks no one knows, the one who still believe in taking candid of friends against sunsets and kissing in the rain.

 

The trio walks out of the shrine gates together, Kuroo’s hand squeezed tightly around Akaashi’s, the other interlocking with Kenma’s fingers.

 

-

 

There are many people at the cemetery, arms filled with flowers and gifts. It’s busy, as it always is on New Years Day, but quiet. Everyone talks in hushed tones, walks with the barest of contact to the ground that is blanketed in pure white. Akaashi shivers, cold nipping at his bare fingers. The calm is eerie and mournful, but it doesn’t bother him too much.

 

He loves the silence, sometimes.

 

The Kozume family grave stands tall, not unlike the rows of stones that surround it. Line after line of names cover the front, stopping at the youngest Kozume sibling. Kenma is the first to kneel down, baring his offerings and bowing his head low. He removes his surgical mask, the smell of incense crackling in the air

 

Akaashi lets his hand drift downward, lacing his fingers through Kuroo’s and giving them a deft squeeze.

 

They turn away to give Kenma some privacy. Akaashi watches as Kuroo’s golden eyes trace the falling snow, tiny flurries landing on his hair with a contrast that looks like the night sky. There’s a sadness quirking at his chapped lips, a shadow above his cheeks. In the soft, grey afternoon, Kuroo looks beautiful. Akaashi can’t help but fall a little bit in love with him. He reckons no one can.

 

“How’s he been?” Akaashi asks quietly, quirking his head toward Kenma.

 

Kuroo doesn’t meet Akaashi’s searching eyes. He stares impassively at their connected hands with that glazed over look on his face. “He’s alright. Been going to therapy with his sister but he still doesn’t talk much. Somehow manages the library desk without having to speak to anyone.”

 

They both let out small laughs at that.

 

“He’s got this photography student that follows him around like a lost puppy. I was wondering if he was one of yours.”

 

“Tetsurou, we don’t intern any kid in Tokyo who has a camera.”

 

“Tall, weird albino hair, foreigner, really annoying…”

 

Akaashi drops his face into a scowl. “Haiba Lev,” he murmurs.

 

Kuroo smirks. “Yeah he’s been trailing around Kenma at the library recently, talking his ear off.”

 

A fond smile plays at Akaashi’s mouth. “You think he’s got a crush?”

 

“Probably. I’m not sure he’s aware Kenma doesn’t do romance though.”

 

“Ah well, he’s gonna find out sooner or later.”

 

They chuckle softly, Akaashi leaning into Kuroo. The mood dissolves into something more solemn. Kuroo tightens his grip on Akaashi’s hand and turns his head to press gentle lips against Akaashi’s scalp. It’s comforting amongst the gravestones and falling snow. Akaashi almost lets himself forget his reason for being there.

 

But then Kenma stands up and Akaashi draws his body toward the stone. He crouches down on one knee, tracing the inscriptions on the way down until deft fingers land on the line he has been searching for. _Kozume Ai._

 

Ai. The symbol of unconditional love. That’s exactly what Kozume-san had been to each and every one to them. The mother Kuroo never knew, the shelter Bokuto needed, the connection Akaashi didn’t have with his own parents. Most importantly, Kenma’s rock.

 

This is the only time Akaashi allows himself to cry for her; when he’s kneeling at her grave, head of black curls pressed again the stone. He gives himself permission to think about her, about the way she held the four of them together.

 

He doesn’t say anything, that’s what Kuroo does. Instead he thinks. He thinks of her unending smile, even as she watched her husband leave her and her youngest child fade away in a hospital bed. She stood by each and every one of them, when Bokuto faced bigoted classmates, when Kuroo got his heart broken again and again. Kozume-san’s life had been a triumph amongst an ever growing amount of tragedy, no romanticization could cover that up or hide it away.

 

So Akaashi lets the tears flow. He cries for Kenma, for the hole she left in everyone’s heart. He cries for the schoolchildren she had taught and for himself.

 

He cries himself dry, until nothing but sobs and red eyes are left behind. When he’s done, he places his bundle of daffodils at the foot of the stone and stands up. His joints crack, his body aches, but manages a reassuring smile for Kuroo.

 

He doesn’t listen as Kuroo talks, the same way he trusts Kuroo didn't listen as he cried. Akaashi goes back to tracing the snowflakes with his eyes and holding Kenma’s trembling body.

 

It’s been three years. Each visit seems to get more and more difficult. Time hasn’t healed this wound yet. Akaashi doesn’t know if it ever will.

 

-

 

“And then Iwa-chan looks down at me, completely flaccid dick right in my face and goes, ‘it’s fucking limp, Tooru’,” Oikawa shouts and Suga throws his head back, howling with laughter.

 

Yaku is gripping Akaashi’s shoulder, shaking with laughter and it would bother him but he’s too busy choking on his decafe to mind. “This is the man you’ve chosen to marry,” Yaku wheezes and another fit of giggles overcomes Akaashi’s body.

 

“I could say the same about him!” Iwaizumi shouts back. He leans on the dessert case, Bokuto and Sawamura flanking both sides. They seem to be laughing at their own personal joke. Bokuto’s smile is intoxicating, wide and unending in a way that makes Akaashi crane his neck to look back at him.

 

The bored black-haired teenager from previous visits scrambles behind the counter, shell shocked by the fact that Japan’s most iconic sports team has decided to take refuge in _Sugawara’s_ after a long day of practice. A good twenty players are scattered across the cafe. Sweat intermingles with the pleasant vanilla scent enough to make Akaashi’s nose wrinkle, but it’s warm. It’s safe. It’s happy.

 

Oikawa sighs and leans his head onto his hand. “We’re getting married in Miyagi at Iwa-chan’s like country folk,” he says, dropping his lips into a pout.

 

“You are country folk!” Suga exclaims, a scandalized look on his face. “Miyagi born and raised, country boy!”

 

“I’ve lived in Tokyo for three years now Suga-chan.”

 

Akaashi finds himself stunned sometimes, just how deep the old volleyball connections run. How Akaashi knows Bokuto, who was best friends with Kuroo, who dated Yaku, whose captain was Sawamura, who went to school with Suga, who played against Oikawa, and so on and so forth. The lines cross, dig deeper than roots, and somehow it feels like he knows everyone in the room. Warmth. Light. He breathes, smiles in amusement and listens to Suga and Oikawa go back and forth like old friends.

 

“Iwa-chan’s grandparents though,” Oikawa trails off, suddenly curling into himself.

 

Akaashi looks up. “What about them?”

 

“Well, they’ve expressed some distaste before cause I’m not a woman.” He says it flippantly, like it doesn’t bother him and Akaashi’s been there. His grandparents don’t bother him either. Most of the time. Other times, snide comments dig too much to ignore. “That was when we first started going out but now they have a problem with the fact that I’m wearing a dress to the reception.”

 

“Fuck them,” both Yaku and Suga reply in unison and Akaashi has to nod his agreement.

 

“It’s your wedding,” Akaashi says. “Wear what you want.”

 

He notices Iwaizumi shift from the corner of his eye. Oikawa leans his head forward and drops his voice down to a whisper. “I don’t want to cause a scene.”

 

Yaku and Suga snort with laughter and Akaashi knows enough to understand the irony of his statement.

 

“Oikawa-kun, you’ve been causing a scene since the moment you set foot in the gym,” Yaku scoffs, lifting his melonpan to his mouth. “You shouldn’t stop for some stuffy old people.”

 

“But they’re Hajime’s stuffy old people!”

 

“Oikawa-san,” Akaashi says, quietly, sincerely. “You should wear whatever you want to be in when you see the man you love.” He keeps his eyes on his coffee, stirring it absently with his pinky finger. “My mother’s parents are traditionalists and practically disowned her for allowing me to wear skirts and date men. She’s still happy, even though they don’t talk much. You should do whatever makes you happy.”

 

They’re all staring at him, surprise plastered on their faces and Akaashi begins to blush furiously. He hadn’t meant to overshare or overstep, considering he’s only known these people for three weeks and they probably -

 

“Keiji-kun, _très intelligent_!” Oikawa exclaims. Suga shakes his head in agreement and Yaku pats Akaashi’s back.

 

He sighs his relief, laughs the smallest bit behind his hand. The topic switches, something about Suga and his crush on the captain, but Akaashi finds himself spacing out, reflective of just how safe he feels here, nestled between Bokuto’s friends. For the first time in weeks, Akaashi feels at peace.

 

He turns his head around one more time and Bokuto is laughing. He’s always laughing, so unreserved and loud. There’s an arm thrown carelessly around Sawamura’s shoulders and a brightness to his eyes that’s so familiar, yet new in the same instance.

 

Akaashi faces frontward again. For the rest of the visit, he has a smile on his lips.

 

-

 

“Keiji darling!” Kuroo exclaims, dipping his lanky body around the entrance to the studio.

 

Akaashi doesn’t respond for a few moments, staring fondly at his data pad with a smile quirking at his lips.

 

_From Bokuto Koutarou_

 

_yo look at this weird bird i found near my jogging path_

 

Akaashi saves the picture, holds onto it like everything Bokuto says to him. A fond sigh escapes his lungs at the sudden and soft realization that’s he’s falling in love, all over again.

 

“Hello Tetsurou,” he says, smile apparent, cheeks burning.

 

“Someone’s happy,” Kuroo replies. He plops his long body on one of the spare chairs lying around.

 

Akaashi nods, doesn’t let his expression fall in the slightest. The back window is open, wintery breeze drifting through, but it’s not freezing. It’s fresh, light. Akaashi is light enough to float, he feels, and it shows.

 

“I am,” he says, setting down his camera on his desk next to his data pad. Kuroo has a bento in his hand, wrapped in a bright yellow color and Akaashi’s mouth waters at the prospect of a few salmon rice balls.

 

Kuroo knows him well enough it seems. There are four onigiri with little cat faces on them. It’s cute, so very thoughtful and Akaashi throws his arms around Kuroo. He’s not sure what compels him to hold his friend so close, but perhaps that’s just what love does to a person.

 

After a few minutes of small talk, Kuroo gives into curiosity. “So who is it?”

 

Akaashi blinks, mouth filled with rice. “Huh?”

 

“Either you’re getting laid or you’re gonna get laid. Which one is it, lover boy?” Kuroo asks with that annoying, probing smirk.

 

Frowning, Akaashi rolls his eyes. “Tetsurou, you are aware that romance exists outside the realm of sexual encounters, right?”

 

“Couldn’t help but overhear,” comes the voice of _utter nuisance_ #2, poking his head into Akaashi’s studio with a smirk on that smug, eyebrow-less face.

 

“Akaashi-kun has a crush?” his partner appears, a marching grin on his face and Akaashi suddenly feels the urge to poke his chopsticks through their eyes.

 

“Matsukawa-san, I respect your authority around here, but kindly fuck off.”

 

“ _Oo,_ such fowl language, Keiji-kun!” Hanamaki exclaims which only serves to annoy Akaashi even further; what on earth is it about him that acquaintances assume they can use his _given name._

 

He closes his eyes, breathes in. “Leave,” he says and the pair scampers down the hallway, giggling the entire time.

 

Akaashi is still glowering at the open door when Kuroo reaches across the desk and whacks Akaashi with his chopsticks. “Hey! I’m being serious! I didn’t expect you to start seeing someone so soon…”

 

The room goes quiet and for a moment the only noise is the flutter of Akaashi’s documents. “I’m not seeing him, we’re just friends.”

 

“Who is it?” Kuroo waggles his eyebrows and suddenly Akaashi feels guilty. He’s aware of the animosity Kuroo feels toward his potential suitor.

 

But it was Kuroo that told him to go after what he wants. A selfish part of Akaashi wants Bokuto, no matter what the consequences. The rational part of Akaashi tells him to hold back. Caught in a never ending cycle between want and restraint.

 

It had been restraint that left him in a loveless relationship for years.

 

“An old friend,” Akaashi whispers to his hands.

 

Kuroo doesn’t probe further. They spend the rest of lunch eating in silence.

 

-

 

“Kanpai!” Bokuto screams loud enough to shake the izakaya, the one three blocks away from Meiji that doesn’t card often and serves half price bottles on Saturdays.

 

“Kanpai,” Akaashi murmurs, faint smile on his face as his tips his beer back to his lips.

 

The entire volleyball team has packed into the small building. Akaashi’s afraid they might’ve gotten kicked out if coach had not paid a hefty fee to rent it out for the night. Nothing less for his two stars players.

 

Said star players are busy, at the moment, pouring each other drinks, interlocking arms and throwing the whiskey back in jubilant glee. Everything is new, bright, and fresh, three minutes past midnight on January first. Bokuto and Yaku smile, F.C. Tokyo jackets hanging off their shoulders and Akaashi feels something deep welling up in his chest.

 

Beside him, Kuroo sulks. He’s half a bottle into this absolutely disgusting sake, red flush high on his cheeks and heartbreak written on every feature. He stands out like a sore thumb. Amidst the happiness and celebration he’s miserable.

 

“I should call Daishou,” Kuroo mumbles, head on the wooden table.

 

Akaashi whacks Kuroo’s head. “Absolutely not!”

 

“I miss him,” he whines.

 

“It’s been two days, Kuroo-kun.”

 

Kuroo lifts his face back up, holds up his empty glass with this golden eyes staring into Akaashi. They’re pleading, sad, and Akaashi supposes he can’t help the way he gives in and pours Kuroo another round of sake.

 

He swallows most of it back in one gulp.

 

Bokuto stumbles directly between them and plops himself down. “‘Kaashi! Kuroo!” He exclaims, looking his arms around the both of them. “Happy New Year!”

 

His breath ghosts over Akaashi’s ear. The alcohol curls and shifts through the air, intoxicating his thoughts. Kuroo leans away, his anger practically seeping out of him. Akaashi wants to be mad to, to be enraged, but he’s powerless against Bokuto’s smile.

 

“Happy New Year,” Akaashi replies, holding out his cup. Bokuto pours, probably whiskey judging by the color, and cheers brightly for Akaashi to reciprocate.

 

“Bokkun, how many have you had?” Kuroo slurs and it’s the lack of filter that makes it come out as a sneer. Bokuto just pokes his tongue out in response. It’s dangerous, the misinterpretation of Kuroo’s emotions for simple teasing. Akaashi knows that it runs far deeper than that.

 

He fills Bokuto’s glass up with some of Kuroo’s sake. Bokuto throws it back, eyes squeezed shut as he ignores the look of absolute disgust on Kuroo’s face.

 

He whoops and shakes his head. “Thanks ‘Kaashi, love you.”

 

Akaashi wants to cry. The statement shoots straight through his heart and pools in his gut.  His cheeks flame red as he watches Bokuto walk away and Kuroo dissolve into a fit of cursing under his breath.

 

“How dare _he_ ? Not inviting Kenma, stealing my sake? How _dare he_?” The venom in his voice is enough to steal Akaashi’s breath from him.

 

A lone part of him wishes he could be angry at Bokuto. Alas, his heart won’t allow it.

 

Akaashi puts an arm around Kuroo, stumbling under the weight of the alcohol in his blood. Everything is hot, _too hot._

 

“Let’s go home,” he whispers in Kuroo’s ear.

 

-

 

Back at his apartment, Kuroo clutches the edges of the porcelain and it’s Akaashi holding his hair back today. Tears are coming from the corners of his eyes, smearing black imprints all the way down and Akaashi’s heart shatters in half.

 

“The damn bastard,” Kuroo sobs.

 

“It’s okay,” he whispers, softly, tenderly. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Tetsurou. It’s okay.”

 

Kenma watches from the doorway, silent as ever, holding a glass of water close to his chest. It trembles, just slightly as he places it down on the sink. He keeps his eyes planted at the back of Kuroo’s hair.

 

The inky strands swallow Akaashi’s pale fingers. He twist those unruly curls, the ones given to Kuroo by a birth mother he never knew. Sobs and wheezing rip through the air, so potent that Akaashi can’t help but cry himself.

 

“Tetsurou,” he mumbles, eyes wide and voice trembling. “Tetsurou. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

 

The coughing subsides to silent tears and Akaashi turns Kuroo around; buries his face in Kuroo’s neck.

 

His hair smells foul, oily and unwashed. His skin is sickly under tender neck kisses. “I miss her,” he whispers. “I miss her, Keiji.”

 

Every word grows more and more incomprehensible, slurs laced in his mournful voice. Like this, Kuroo’s fragile. He bends and cracks at the seams.

 

Akaashi pulls Kuroo back, turns him by the chin to meet his eyes. “I know you do, Tetsurou,” Akaashi murmurs.

 

Kuroo’s eyes squeeze up. The tears fall again and all the fills the bathroom space are choking sobs and repetitions. “ _I miss her. I miss her. Kaa-san. Kaa-san.”_

 

Akaashi places his forehead on Kuroo’s, nuzzles his cheek and offers his lips. A small kiss. Kuroo wraps his hands around Akaashi’s neck, kisses him chastely and breaks apart. _You’re safe_ Akaashi says with his hands in Kuroo’s hair. _I’ve got you_ he whispers with the breath between them.

 

Everything will be okay. As long as Kuroo has Akaashi.

 

-

 

Movie night at Kuroo’s apartment isn’t always this rambunctious, but the addition of Yaku probably contributes to that. The three of them are curled along Kuroo’s horrible couch, crying with laughter at the indie gay comedy they have projecting from Kuroo’s data pad.

 

Akaashi’s nearly spits his wine onto Yaku’s lap as the main character laments about the difficulties of first time blow jobs.

 

“Oh my gods, he sounds like Tetsurou when we were experimenting in high school!” Yaku cries out. “‘Kaashi-kun has he ever told you about time he used shaving cr-“

 

Kuroo slaps his hand over Yaku’s mouth. “Shut up!” He shouts, spilling his own glass of wine onto his cat print sleep shorts. Yaku proves himself to be much more resilient as he bites one of Kuroo’s fingers. It’s like they’re in high school all over again, really, only the alcohol isn’t stolen from their parents cabinets.

 

“Tetsurou tried used shaving cream as lube!” Yaku blurts, and this time Akaashi _does_ spit out his wine.

 

“And then my mom had to take him to the emergency room because he said his asshole was burning and that’s how I came out as gay.” Yaku’s words are coming out at a thousand kilometers per minute because Kuroo is trying his absolute best to get a hand back over his mouth.

 

Akaashi laughs so hard, he disturbs poor Kaneki sitting on her cat bed. She meows loudly and moves away from the commotion, probably into the kitchen to steal some popcorn.

 

“You’re scaring Kaneki-san!” Kuroo yelps, to which he receives a teasing punch to his shoulder.

 

“Stop avoiding the subject!” Akaashi giggles behind his hand. “Why on earth did you think it was a good idea to put shaving cream in your ass!?”

 

“I was fifteen!

 

“I was fifteen once too!”

 

“Gods, I’m pretty sure Bokkun did that when he was twenty-two so I guess it’s justified,” Yaku murmurs to himself, then turn to Akaashi and elbows him in the side. “That’s the idiot you’re in love with!”

 

“Bokkun?” Kuroo asks, brow furrowing. “You mean Bokuto?”

 

Akaashi promptly feels the color drain from his face.

 

“Yeah, dumbass, the one I play professional volleyball with.”

 

His heart rate speeds up and Akaashi’s fingers begin to shake. This is it, the truth finally comes out and guilt weighs down heavily on his weary shoulders.

 

“Yeah, I know but how is Akaashi…” Kuroo trails off. Confusion melts into realization and burns into anger, all in a few short moments. Akaashi turns his shoulders in, makes himself smaller while Yaku seems to sense his mistake, sipping his wine and looking down to his lap in shame.

 

“I’ve been talking to Bokuto-san,” Akaashi states. He holds eye contact with Kuroo, unflinching against that hot gaze that burns like the summer sun. “I may have feelings for him.”

 

Yaku shifts uncomfortably. “You guys I think-“

 

“How long?” Kuroo asks. It’s his captain voice, that powerful, commanding tone that skewers right through Akaashi’s chest. There’s betrayal in his eyes.

 

“He invited me to a match three weeks ago. I’ve known since then.”

 

“And you failed to tell me?”

 

The air in the room has gone from warm to sub zero. Kuroo’s voice, his body, his expression is laced with pure _rage._ It’s been a long time since Akaashi’s seen him go beyond passive aggressive comments and drunken screaming matches. This is different. This is the Kuroo that’s been hurt.

 

Akaashi stands up, hands shaking violently as he grasps them against his chest. He hasn’t taken his meds in two days, busy with work and now he regrets it. His breath goes in and out, faster than warranted and unwanted tears stream from the corners of his eyes because _gods_ Kuroo is _yelling_ at him. Akaashi _hurt_ his best friend.

 

“All those times you were texting with that _stupid fucking_ smile on your face, that was him wasn’t it?!”

 

Kuroo’s shifted into yelling now. Akaashi’s frozen. His thoughts keep repeating the same thing, over and over. _He hurt Kuroo. He hurt Kuroo. He hurt Kuroo._

 

“You just barely got out of a five year long relationship, Keiji! What are you thinking?”

 

Yaku leaps to his feet, standing close to Akaashi’s side, eyebrows drawn low over his eyes. “Is Akaashi-kun fucking obliged to tell you about his love life? Ask your permission?” he growls, leaning to stand protectively over Akaashi.

 

“Yakkun, stay out of th-“

 

“I-It was you…. You who told me it was okay to not have the same feelings I did when I was nineteen,” Akaashi whispers. He squeezes his eyes shut and curses at the ugly tears that roll down and down. His chest, it’s too tight and the walls around him are closing inward. His breath gives out into a tiny pathetic sob. Akaashi shakes his head, wanting desperately for the panic to go away so he can have a rational conversation.

 

“Keiji, you have to know it hurts,” Kuroo says, this time softer. “Bokuto _abandoned_ us.” His teeth clench and Akaashi readies himself for another blow.

 

“While he was off having the time of his life with his new volleyball team, we were grieving, Keiji! He didn’t even show up to her funeral, so excuse me if I feel angry that this is the guy you’re pining after!”

 

“I’ve been in love with him since our first year!” Akaashi practically screams back. His throat is raw, his bones ache and crack at the finality of his admission. It’s the absolute truth. Bokuto has always captivated Akaashi’s soul, with his wide eyes and pipe dreams tall enough to touch the sky. He drops down into a broken whisper. “I finally have the chance now…”

 

It’s selfish. So selfish. He hugs into his middle, noting that the panic has stopped and given way to an emptiness. Yaku takes Akaashi by the shoulder, dragging him backward. “Let’s go,” he says.

 

The popcorn on the kitchen counter has cooled, the movie plays softly, and Kuroo just sits on the couch, spilled wine coloring his shorts and tears playing at the corners of his eyes. “Yakkun, wait,” Akaashi attempts to say but Yaku shakes his head.

 

“He needs to work this one out himself, Akaashi-kun.”

 

It’s dark outside Kuroo’s apartment, quiet. Akaashi stares impassively the whole trip home. He doesn’t hear Yaku’s ranting in the car, doesn’t remember walking the steps of his own building. In the darkness and security of his room, he looks up to the ceiling and traces the bumpy drywall with his blown out pupils. When sleep catches him hours later, all he can think of is pure and unbridled guilt.

 

-

 

Ennoshita is gorgeous in the afternoon light. His kind brown eyes glow like they always have. A month and a half has passed since that fateful day, and he looks better, well-rested, happier. Akaashi can’t help the guilt that stabs at his soul.

 

They’ve seated themselves in their usual corner booth. Akaashi eats away at his hefty serving of onigiri while Ennoshita takes tiny sips of his tea waiting for his ramen to come. It’s almost as if nothing has changed, but when Akaashi catches his gaze, there’s a deep understanding that everything is different.

 

“Kuroo-san and I got into a fight,” he explains after swallowing down a mouthful of rice.

 

“So that’s why you called,” Ennoshita trails off. His bowl arrives, steaming hot, and he barely has time to mutter his thanks before Akaashi’s dipping his chopsticks in to steal a slice of pork. He shoves the meat into his mouth with a satisfied smile and nods his agreement.

 

“That was part of the reason, yes,” he says. Ennoshita gives him an annoyed stare.

 

“Really?”

 

“You give good advice.” Akaashi takes another bite of his onigiri, doesn’t swallow before adding, “And I wanted to see how you were doing.”

 

Ennoshita’s face drops into a lazy smile. “That’s kind of you, Keiji.”

 

Shrugging, Akaashi drops his head onto his palm. “I wanted to apologize. It must’ve been embarrassing after I left,” he says. “And I apologize for staying with you when I should’ve ended it a long time ago.”

 

Akaashi had come here for advice, for apologies, but most of all he had come for an open and honest conversation. He needs to let go of some of the guilt before it crushes him from the inside out.

 

“You’re forgiven,’ Ennoshita replies brightly. “Besides, I needed to tell you something too.”

 

Akaashi waits, chopsticks poised at his mouth.

 

“I guess I wasn’t in love with you anymore either.” It comes out slowly, in between stuttering breaths but after he says it, he slouches down as if the tension has melted from his body.

 

“That’s…” Akaashi starts, staring thoughtfully into the air. The light from the window seeps onto the table and illuminates Ennoshita’s features with warm oranges and browns. “That’s a relief.”

 

And both burst into laughter. Akaashi has to cover his mouth as he tries not to choke on the few rice grains stuck on his teeth. They laugh hard to shake table, to draw tears to their eyes and make their stomachs ache. “We’re,” Akaashi wheezes between chuckles, “a pair of idiots aren’t we.”

 

Ennoshita clears his throat, lets his last laugh die in his throat before speaking again.

 

“Maybe I was in love with the idea of us,” he says, almost too soft to be heard over the murmur of the shop. “Holding on to something that wasn’t really there.”

 

“Something like that,” Akaashi murmurs.

 

He thinks that he likes _Suguimoto Ramen_ because of the atmosphere. In the wooden walls lies a time honored Fukurodani tradition. The booth in the far corner is the confession spot, the seats that have seems hundreds of teenage triumphs and heartbreaks. At the bar counter, athletes sit to console losses or celebrate wins. Something about the place brings out the nostalgia in Akaashi, the truth in him.

 

“I’ve been talking to…” Akaashi gulps and averts his eyes to his frayed fingernails. “Bokuto Koutarou.”

 

Ennoshita raises his brow. “Oh, Keiji,” he says, a little helpless and breathless all at once. “You love him.”

 

Akaashi is at his mercy. Surrendering himself to the truth he breathes a tiny, “Yes,” and it’s like a weight lifts right off his lungs.

 

“Of course,” Ennoshita laughs to himself. It’s the smallest bit bitter. “It always comes back to him doesn’t it?”

 

Akaashi nods, unable to vocalize the honesty anymore. Maybe he’d been running from it for so long that it hurts to confront it. Bokuto had ensnared his heart the day he introduced himself to class 1-5, hands fiddling with that leather bracelet as if his life had depended on it.

 

There’s pain written on Ennoshita’s furrowed brow that Akaashi finally understands. The poor boy hadn’t even had a chance to begin with. From the moment Akaashi’s lips touched his all those years ago, Ennoshita was launched into a competition he would always enviably loose.

 

“I’m sorry,” Akaashi states. He bows his head low. “I’m so sorry.”

 

Ennoshita waves him off. “No need to apologize, Keiji. Besides, Futakuchi-san…”

 

The sheepish pout to his lips completes the rest of sentence. Akaashi understands.

 

“Ya’ know what, as much as it hurts me to say this,” Ennoshita continues, picking at his noodles with his chopsticks, “I think we owe it to ourselves.”

 

Picking his head up from his hand, Akaashi asks, “What do you mean?”

 

“The both of us pretended for so long, we should be allowed to indulge ourselves in the real thing.” Ennoshita puts his chopsticks down and looks wistfully out at the afternoon sun. “You’ve been chasing Bokuto-san for years. If you’ve got him within reach, you should go for it.”

 

Ennoshita words are so deeply profound, they strike him. It’s cathartic, like a breath of fresh air and Akaashi inhales deeply and smiles genuinely.

 

“Well, you should ask Futakuchi-san out,” Akaashi smirks.

 

To that, Ennoshita almost chokes on his meal. “Darling we’ve been fucking for three weeks we’re well past that,” he says loudly and it erupts another bout of shared laughter.

 

“Chikara!” Akaashi squawks between his giggles.

 

The familiarity between them, the warmth in their movements should hurt, but it’s light and beautiful. Akaashi squeezes his eyes shut. It’s how it should be, Akaashi and Ennoshita at _Suguimoto_ with full stomachs and unending laughter.

 

When they part ways, the sun is going down. This time, he gets to watch Ennoshita walk away. This time, he breathes free.

 

-

 

Komi and Sarukui are holding each other’s hands when Akaashi sees them at the entrance to Fukurodani’s gym. He walks forward, sun going down ever so slowly as Bokuto trails behind him. Akaashi can’t look back to him, can’t watch as the rays of light color his eyes a burnt sienna. He can’t, for fear of falling harder, of getting lost in the sunset hues.

 

Time has touched his former teammates well and beautiful. Konoha’s hair pools in blond waves well past his shoulders. Washio stands above the rest of them with a tiny stud in his right ear and a gold band around his left ring finger. Wrapped in each other, Komi and Sarukui seem to have been preserved, untouched since their high school days. Komi only stands a little taller, Sarukui’s jaw the slightest bit stronger.

 

And before Akaashi knows it, Shirofuku Yukie is tackling him. “A-kaa-shi-kun,” she drawls, wrapping her arms around his neck and giving him the sloppiest kiss possible, bright pink lipstick imprinted on his cheek.

 

If there’s anyone in this world that can cause greater chaos than _utter nuisance_ Kuroo Tetsurou, it’s _bane of his damn existence_ Shirofuku Yukie, and they had dated for three months. He shakes her off with a grimace. “I thought you were in Fukuoka with Yui,” he grunts as she continues her assault.

 

“We just got back! Didn’t you miss me!?” her voice drops low as she starts to make obnoxious kissing sounds right next to his ear.

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“Lay off Yukie,” comes the unexpected and very much so protective voice of his beloved Bokuto. And that does things to Akaashi. It reddens his ears, quickens his pulse.

 

The interaction doesn’t go unnoticed, of course, not with these terrible people and Konoha is the first to say something. “Oya?” he teases, brushing his long hair from his face and suddenly he resembles Kuroo. Same long hair and lack of eyebrows, just ... _blonder_.

 

And far more annoying.

 

“Bokkun, so protective,” Sarukui says with a waggle of his eyebrows.

 

“I’m sorry Akaashi-kun, I didn’t know you were taken,” Shirofuku smirks, sliding off of him and hugging Bokuto’s midsection.

 

“I’m not-“

 

“We’re aren’t to-“

 

Gods bless Washio and his perfect timing. “The game’s about to start,” he says simply. It’s enough to command the silence of the crowd. His voice has gotten deeper.

 

A few more reserve players from Akaashi’s year arrive and the crowd of six grows until he can’t even recognize many of the younger faces among them. They’re starstruck at the sight of Bokuto, cooing and praising him as they all move toward the gym entrance and Akaashi feels the urge to grab Bokuto’s hand, to never let go.

 

He settles for linked pinkies.

 

Per usual, Konoha feels that it’s appropriate that he make himself the center of attention. He stands atop the stairs at the entrance to Fukurodani’s gym, cups his hands around his mouth, and yells.

 

“Alrighty, listen up everyone!” Akaashi looks away for a second and suddenly Konoha is on Washio’a shoulders. “Today, the fearsome owls are facing one of our longstanding mortal enemies.” He pauses for dramatic effect, the entire crowd’s’ eyes on him. “Today we cheer so loud that Nohebi can’t even hear themselves breathe!”

 

A cheer goes up and the group of Fukurodani alumni is sent into a frenzy. The energy thrums in the air until Bokuto vibrates in his shoes. “Onward to victory!” he cries, linking his fingers completely through Akaashi’s.

 

And while he’s not one for crowds, Bokuto keeps him grounded and less nervous. Once they’re seated, white and gold banners tied around their heads and the Fukurodani chants echoing of the walls, Akaashi relaxes. This is familiar. This is what he used to call home back when winning nationals was the only concern he ever had.

 

Onaga has found his way to meet them, Kaori in tow and it turns into a team reunion. They’ve all changed. Konoha is still woefully single, Washio is marrying a man he’d met in Kyoto, and Komi remains too contented in Sarukui’s grip for anyone to contest their relationship status. Onaga is well on his way to becoming a doctor and Kaori still lives at her mother’s, complaining every so often about the horror of working in retail. They’ve all grown up in their own ways, but together, like this, they’re in high school again.

 

Konoha still wears those horrible rubber shoes and the rest of the team still laughs at him for it. Komi still sneezes too loud. When the spiker makes an amazing cut shot, Akaashi leaps in Bokuto’s arms with a smile and a yowl of victory. Bokuto twirls him around once, then twice, finally setting him down when someone taps at his shoulder.

 

Green hair and sharp eyes greet them. It takes Akaashi a moment to recognize Daishou, he supposes he never got a good look at him when his face wasn’t buried in Kuroo’s neck.

He’s not alone either. A beautiful young woman clings onto his hand and one of Bokuto’s teammates, the younger one, stands behind them.

 

“Kuguri-kun!” Bokuto exclaims, launching himself at man in question with a wide smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here!”

 

“I graduated from Nohebi, Bokuto-san,” Kuguri deadpans as Bokuto continues to ruffle his hair.

 

“Keiji-kun,” Daishou says, drawing Akaashi’s attention away from the teammates. “It’s been awhile!”

 

Again with his given name. A scowl plasters itself across his face. “Hello Dai-san,” he says through his teeth.

 

“This is Daishou Mik- Oh where’d she go?”

 

They both find her between Komi and Sarukui, laughing at something or another. Akaashi can’t help but let out a chuckle of his own. “That was fast,” he says with an amused grin.

 

Daishou’s lips twitch up, a light blush dusting his pale skin. “That’s my Mika-chan,” he says fondly. “She could probably make friends with a wall if she wanted to.”

 

Akaashi’s eyes drift over to Bokuto who’s now succumbed to poking Kuguri in the side with Konoha encouraging him from his spot on the bleachers. He lets himself wonder for a second how it would be to call him _my Kou-chan_ , to wake up to his golden eyes every morning and be held in those strong arms as Akaashi makes coffee for two.

 

“Oya?” Daishou interrupts his fantasy, following Akaashi’s gaze. “Does someone have a crush?”

 

Is he really that transparent? His frown deepens, but the heat crawling up his cheeks betrays him.

 

“Bokuto Koutarou, huh? How does Kuroo-kun feel about that?”

 

While Akaashi hadn’t known Daishou personally, he’d earned quite a reputation for himself on the court. Observant, quick witted, and a _provocative bastard_. It’s no wonder Kuroo had taken to him so quickly. Daishou’s ability to read him so clearly strikes Akaashi.

 

He doesn’t want to answer, but Daishou’s got those same probing eyes. Letting out a sigh he says, “Kuroo-kun doesn’t approve much.”

 

“I figured,” Daishou replies, swinging his arms around until he finds the railing and lets out a rallying cry when Nohebi scores on a fast attack. Akaashi rolls his eyes and moves to walk away, but Daishou catches his shoulder. “Kuroo-kun’s got this problem with forgiveness. We broke up because he couldn’t reconcile our rivalry from high school. Don’t take it too hard on yourself for liking Bokkun.”

 

Akaashi stands there, stunned because Daishou just walks away. He calls Mika over and they cross to Nohebi’s side.

 

“You alright ‘Kaashi?” Bokuto comes up from behind him and laces their fingers back together.

 

Somehow, Daishou’s words have removed a part of the guilt in his chest. He squeezes tighter around Bokuto’s hand and leans back into him. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’ll be okay.”

 

-

 

Fukurodani wins in straight sets. When the last ball lands in Nohebi’s court,  Bokuto crushes Akaashi against his chest and they both let out cheers in unison. Konoha bounds excitably next to Kuguri, his newly found friend who stares impassively as the fan section goes wild.

 

The game doesn’t count for anything, just an unofficial match set up by the third years. Something to settle rivalries, Akaashi presumes. Even so, the win is _so satisfying._ He lets himself be swept up in the celebration as if he were the one on the court.

 

The crowd is beginning to calm down and move out when Bokuto gets stopped.

 

“B-Bokuto-sama.” A fresh faced boy in a Fukurodani warm up suit stands behind them, struggling to stand still amongst the crowded fansection. “I uh…”

 

He’s fiddling with his data pad and Bokuto takes to him immediately. “You want a picture?” he asks with a grateful smile.

 

The boy nods, handing his device to Akaashi. He snaps a few shots of them before lowering the lens.

 

He expects some nervous stuttering out of the boy, but it all melts away as he opens his mouth, loud and proud he says, “I’m just like you, Bokuto-sama!”

 

He puffs his chest out and crosses his arms. “And I didn’t think people like me could do sports but I saw you on the tv! I’m gonna be good like you and then I’m gonna defeat you someday!” he shouts loud enough to ring throughout the gym. Several people stop to stare and Akaashi expects Bokuto to patronize the young boy.

 

Instead Bokuto lowers his eyebrows. “I’ll be looking forward to that day,” he proclaims.

 

The boys runs off with a fire in his eyes and Akaashi stares after him in shock. His eyes travel back to Bokuto, who seems to be struggling for breath.

 

“Akaashi,” he whispers, coming up from behind and curling their fingers together once more. “That was so cool.”

 

The gym has emptied out, only a few stragglers remaining behind to clean up. Akaashi’s heart hammers in his chest. He leans forward to nuzzle into Bokuto’s neck. “You are so cool,” he murmurs softly.

 

-

 

The sake is bitter on his lips, fire breathing down his throat even out in the frigid cold. Bokuto presses closer to Akaashi, the heated tokkuri heavy in his palms. He pours a drink for Bokuto, the way he’d seen his mother do when she had her boss over for dinner a month ago.

 

His hands shake. It’s freezing outside, just three days before graduation. The snow falls heavy and Akaashi reckons they’ll have to get off the rooftop soon.

 

“You sure your sister’s okay with this?” Akaashi asks, voice feeble under his blue knit scarf.

 

“Akaashi-kun, it’s _fine_ ,” he drawls. “Nee-chan said her not telling Kaa-san was her graduation to me.” Bokuto crosses his arms and tuts at that. “Some graduation gift,” he mumbles.

 

This is his third cup but Akaashi had heard once from Keiko that “us Bokutos can’t handle our liquor very well.” It shows on the flush that stains Bokuto’s cheekbones, almost like a permanent line across tanned skin. His golden eyes are glassy and he talks much slower than he normal.

 

“Hey, Bokuto-san,” he whispers. “Can I ask you a favor?”

 

Bokuto peers his head around curiously. “What is it ‘Kaashi?”

 

His heart hammers furiously in his chest and he’d like to say it’s liquid courage that’s making him do such rash things but he’s been spitting out most of the sake when Bokuto wasn’t looking. He squares his shoulders, opens his mouth to say something but finds himself getting lost on the way the light dances off of Bokuto’s pale eyelashes.

 

“W-when you get all big and famous one day, don’t forget about me,” Akaashi mutters into his scarf.

 

And Bokuto laughs, loud and intoxicating. “I’m not dyin’ Akaashi! You said you’re goin’ to Meiji too so like, of course I won’t forget you.”

 

Akaashi sighs.

 

“And who says I’ll be anyone anyways,” Bokuto huffs. “Pro teams don’t accept people like m-”

 

“They will,” Akaashi states. And he doesn’t understand how he knows this, but he does. Bokuto’s too good, too dedicated to sit on the sidelines, too influential to just be nobody. His circumstance hasn’t stopped him from achieving thus far, and Akaashi just _knows_ it won’t hold him back. “They will, Bokuto-san.”

 

Bokuto’s brow softens and he raises a cold hand to cup Akaashi’s cheek. “Thanks for always believin’ in me, Keiji.” He leans in a bit closer, enough so Akaashi can smell the alcohol on his breath. “I promise I won’t forget you.”

 

Both of them stop suddenly, the proximity between their lips made known by Bokuto’s pupils flitting down to stare at them. Akaashi squeezes his eyes closed and angles his head up, because Bokuto’s the most beautiful, captivating boy he’s ever met. It might be the aura in the air, the half a cup of warm sake sitting in his belly, but he thinks he’s a little bit in love.

 

Bokuto’s lips makes feather light contact with his when the balcony door slides open. They jump apart, Bokuto blushing red down to the roots of his hair and Akaashi trying to hide the tokkuri behind his back.

 

Keiko raises her eyebrows at the two of them, an awkward silence passing before she sighs and shakes her head. “C’mon inside you rebellious teenagers. Kaa-san went to bed so the coast is all clear.”

 

Keiko disappears inside the house and quiet falls over the pair. Akaashi walks behind Bokuto until he’s in, cupping his cheek with glossed over eyes, wondering exactly how much would’ve changed if he kissed Bokuto.

 

They spent the rest of the night watching old Ghibli films and draining the tokkuri. As Akaashi’s vision grows more and more blurry he snuggles closer to his best friend.

 

Akaashi wonders if Bokuto will remember this in the morning. He’s never been drunk before, doesn’t know how the whole blackout thing works. Staring up at the spinning ceiling, he hopes Bokuto will make good on his promise, prays that he comes back to Akaashi from time to time.

 

-

 

The cemetery at night is haunting. Akaashi can’t help the unsettled feeling that rises in his chest, but he has nowhere else to turn. Kuroo hasn’t messaged him in a week and Akaashi needs someone to confide in, someone to tell him what to do.

 

He kneels down at the Kozume family grave, lights a stick of incense before folding his hands together. This time, it’s not enough to just think. He has to talk, just like Kuroo.

 

“Tetsurou hasn’t talked to me in a week and it’s weird because it’s the longest we’ve gone without contact since you died.” Every word feels heavy on his tongue, oddly flat and emotionless against the thick, suffocating quiet. “I love Bokuto Koutarou, Okaa-san.”

 

The admittance is enough to clear the fog in his head and he repeats it, this time a little louder. “I love Bokuto Koutarou.”

 

“And Tetsurou hates it. All he can think about is how Bokuto-san abandoned us when you left. He doesn’t realize how much it hurt Bokuto too. He never saw how much Bokuto was drinking or how long he stayed after practice, hitting serves until his hands were sore.”

 

Akaashi lowers his head until he’s pressed against the stone. He thumbs over Kozume-san’s name. “He grew apart from us Okaa-san, but I know he didn’t forget me or you or anyone. Bokuto-san’s not that kind of person. I was right, too. He promised he wouldn’t forget me and then I heard him talking about me on the radio.

 

“It’s like one of those things that only happen in movies. It was by complete chance that I heard his interview and he talked about me like I hung the stars in the sky. You know how Bokuto-san can get.”

 

He sighs and breathes out through his nose. The frigid air colors white and Akaashi watches it for a second. “I-I think you’d forgive him... I dunno if that’s true but you’d probably whack him over the head with your copy of Jump from 1989 and ask him what the hell he was thinking. I think you’d find it in your heart to forgive him and maybe it’s shallow, but I’ve forgiven him too.

 

“I don’t pray much Okaa-san but I’m going to pray that you grant Tetsurou a bit of your forgiving spirit, because I’m in love with K-Koutarou, but I couldn’t live with myself if I was hurting Tetsu.”

 

He bows his head low, throat scratchy from inhaling some of the incense. He licks his fingers and puts it out. His heels crunch against the snow as he walks away, but he doesn’t look back.

 

Akaashi pulls his data pad from his coat pocket.

 

_To Oikawa Tooru_

 

_I need advice._

 

_I’m going to ask Bokuto-san out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two things. the "shaving cream in kuroo's ass" comes from this amazing yakulev fic called [five minutes.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4605924) if u loved this u should consider rt'ing it on twitter as i mainly opperate out of twitter. @ugliegay is my user
> 
> we're nearing the end here folks. two more chapters. i should be finished by the end of may but worry not, i plan on writing much more for this universe. thank you so much.


	4. hate/love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a beat of silence when the waiter brings over the bill. Bokuto pulls out his card and Akaashi lets him, no questions asked. The quiet between them sits comfortably.
> 
> “I’m in love with you,” Bokuto says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at long last I have finally found the strength within me to finish this fic. it's taken me a long time to just... let it go, but we're here now, and I'm so glad.
> 
> i have two more parts to post right after this, so I'll hold off on the sap until the epilogue but I just want to say, thank you for reading, so very much.

“Is he okay?” are the first words that leave Akaashi’s mouth. Brows arched with concern, he glances over his shoulder, back at Oikawa Tooru, who, in his few moments alone, has adopted a severe expression. 

When he catches Akaashi’s eye, his smile goes sugary sweet, blinding in its artificiality. Akaashi’s concern only deepens. 

He whips his head back around to Suga, watching carefully as his drink is prepared. Suga averts his gaze, staring intently down at the barrels of tea leaves just beyond the dessert counter. A crack of steam flows through the air. Suga hands Akaashi the cup of tea with a thin lipped smile before he clears his throat, saying, “Not exactly…”

_ Sugawara’s  _ empty interior is eerie, all the chairs stacked up on the tables for the night, devoid of the gentle indie music and the sound of his friends’ laughter. Harsh red light from the izakaya across the street, still alive at this time of night, streams into the windows and paints Oikawa in melancholy colors. He sits at a booth, sipping black coffee with fingers that shake hard enough to rattle the cup. 

Bokuto had told Akaashi that Oikawa resigned from the team last week. Akaashi thinks of the knee injury and it’s all too clear why Oikawa looks like he’s grieving. 

“What’s his favorite dessert?” Akaashi asks in a low whisper, leaning his head down close to Suga’s. 

Suga smiles, doesn’t say a word. He ducks down to the dessert case and picks out three milk bread buns from the bottom slot. Moments later, he hands them to Akaashi on a nice plate with a little heart drawn in chocolate on the side. 

Akaashi reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few coins for his tea and the milk bread and is met automatically by Suga’s protest. “Friends don’t have to pay!” He squawks, attempting to push Akaashi’s hands away. 

Akaashi smiles, shoving his hands forward again. “Friends pay extra, Sugawara-san.”

He drops the coins and turns on his heel, ignoring Suga’s squeaking. His footsteps echo off the hardwood floor. When he glances up, he catches the forlorn expression on Oikawa’s face, the crease beneath his eyes grown tight. Tired. Oikawa looks tired. 

Akaashi grabs the cold coffee cup on Oikawa’s table and trades it for the chamomile tea he’d bought. He sets down the plate and sits across from Oikawa, pleasant smile on his face. 

“For you,” he says kindly. 

Oikawa crosses his arms and blows a tuft of hair out of his face. “You don’t have to baby me Keiji-kun,” he huffs, not without shoving one of the buns in his mouth. 

“No one’s babying you, Oikawa-san, I’m a friend attempting to counsel my friend, that’s all.” Akaashi speaks in low tones. Everything is quiet, cold. 

Suga joins them a moment later, handing Akaashi a steaming cup of coffee. He wants to refuse, knowing the anxiety that accompanies caffeine, but he can’t resist. The cup is warm against his fingertips. Akaashi murmurs his thanks before taking a huge gulp, feeling every drop spread warmth down his throat. 

Tucked under Oikawa’s arm is a digital magazine. Akaashi hadn’t been there, at the last game, the one where Oikawa collapsed. Bokuto has later told him it was a spur of the moment decision to put Oikawa back into the lineup. 

**_F.C.’s STAR SETTER OUT OF THE GAME FOR GOOD: THE TRAGIC END OF OIKAWA TOORU’S CAREER_ **

A pain strikes Akaashi deep in his chest. His concern cuts through him like a knife. Akaashi moves quickly to turn the digital projector off. The harsh black words disappear, but Oikawa’s face remains in this dead, broken state. 

“Oikawa-san…”

 

“Forget it.” Oikawa brushes his hands through his hair, meeting Suga’s uneasy stare with challenging eyes. “We’re here because dear Keiji-kun needs help right?”

 

“Tooru…”

 

Oikawa leans forward, letting out a low shushing sound and covering Suga’s mouth with his hand. “Hush Suga-chan, we’re here to help our incapable friend, not mope over my knee… ‘sides, I’d rather not turn this into a crying session.”

 

Akaashi loosens his shoulders, tilts the mug back until he drains half its contents. He winces at the sharp, sweet taste a moment before deciding to talk. 

 

“I have no idea how to ask him out,” he murmurs to no one in particular. “Bokuto-san,” he tacks on, in case anyone forgot his massive crush. 

 

Oikawa and Suga stare at him impassively. Red begins to spread across his face and it feels like he’s burning at the admission. Giving in to his feelings, lying vulnerable before his newfound friends, he looks up at them with pleading eyes. 

 

“Keiji-kun,” Oikawa says, amused, but on his face is written a sense of cold, detached heartache. “You’re confident he likes you back?”

 

It stings a little. Suga glares but Akaashi waves him off. 

 

“I’ve been waiting for far too long to care,” he replies. 

 

It’s the absolute truth. Years and years of cold hard pining has worn Akaashi’s soul down. He’s tired of chasing Bokuto, tired of him being just out of reach. He’s finally within grasping distance and Akaashi cannot,  _ will not _ , let him slip away again. 

 

That’s why he’s here, taking romantic advice from Oikawa Tooru.

 

The man himself flashes a pearly white smirk. He fiddles with the ring on his finger and suddenly that expression goes calm, serene. “You’ve loved him for a long time, huh Keiji-kun?” Oikawa mumbles. His eyes are a thousand miles away. 

 

Akaashi remembers the kanji over Iwaizumi’s heart. He thinks maybe, if anyone understands, it’s Oikawa. 

 

“Something like that,” Akaashi replies. 

 

And Suga bursts in like a firecracker. “So what are ya’ gonna do about it?” he asks, loud voice echoing through the empty shop. 

 

Akaashi blinks up, bleary eyes narrowed, brow knit. “I… I dunno?”

 

Oikawa sighs. “Do you have anything stronger, Suga-chan?”

 

“Oikawa-kun, you’re not drinking,” Suga replies. 

 

“ _ I’m  _ not.  _ We  _ are,” With a wink, Oikawa stands up, wincing as he walks. Suga watches in mild dissatisfaction, but doesn’t stop him as he lets himself around the counter and pulls out both a tokkuri and a bottle of red wine. 

 

“Why on earth do you have that behind the counter?” Akaashi asks, turning to stare at Suga. 

 

“We serve hot wine and sake,” Suga replies quickly, staring at the floor. 

 

Akaashi raises his eyebrows. “Well, I’m not drinking. I have work tomorrow.”

 

Oikawa smirks and plops himself back down at their booth. “Here’s what  _ we _ ’ _ re _ gonna do. We’re gonna sit down, Keiji-kun is gonna call that idiot Haiba-kun in to do whatever family photo he’s booked for tomorrow, and Suga-chan is gonna go get me some cups because my knee is killing me. After that, we’re gonna drink wine and talk about Keiji-kun’s problems until I forget about my own.” He flashes a pearly white smile. “Deal?”

 

Suga heaves himself up to go fetch some glasses.Akaashi sighs. They’re in for a long night, he fears. 

 

-

 

It takes a very strong willed man to say no to Oikawa Tooru, especially an overly affectionate drunken one. He’s half on the couch, half on the floor, whining loudly into Suga’s small studio apartment. 

 

“Keiji-kun, you  _ have _ to come.”

 

Akaashi shakes his head for the thousandth time and sighs. “I’m not going to let you pay for me. You’ve got enough expenses as it is.”

 

“You act like Hajime isn’t the third highest paid athlete in Japan,” Oikawa shoots back, swaying back and forth in his seat. The wine bottle lies on the ground, completely empty with just a few stained red drops spilling onto the white tiled floor. Suga sits with his head in Akaashi’s lap, Oikawa’s bad knee sprawled across his stomach. 

 

“That,” Akaashi says, pursing his lips, “I didn’t know.”

 

“Do you think Sawamura-kun’s rich like that,” Suga says. His eyes close slowly, sighing as Akaashi runs gentle fingers through his hair. 

 

“When are you going to ask him out?” Akaashi mutters. 

 

“When the time’s right.” Suga reaches up and flicks Akaashi’s nose. 

 

“Keiji-kun, you’re one to talk,” Oikawa butts in. 

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Yeah, ‘Kaashi-kun, what's the hold up.”

 

“I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

 

Oikawa gasps in mock offense, Suga clutching at his heart. “So violent!” Suga cries. “Protect me, Oikawa-kun!”

 

Suga launches himself on top of Oikawa, careful to avoid the injured knee. They squawk at each other for a few moments and Akaashi finds himself giggling fondly at their antics. 

 

It rubs wrong at the pit of his stomach; he feels almost as if he’s cheating on Kuroo but Kuroo’s his childhood best friend and not his lover. His chest aches, and it hurts even more to see his newfound friends laughing and smiling along with him. The guilt weighs down heavy. He goes quiet, Oikawa and Suga’s banter fading to background noise. 

 

There’s a snapping in front of his face. “Keiji-kun,” Oikawa says and he snaps back into reality. 

 

“Huh?” he grunts, blinking rapidly. 

 

“What do you think?” Suga asks. 

 

“About what?”

 

The pair sighs in tandem, Oikawa adjusting himself so he sits upright on the couch. “You bringing Bokkun to the wedding! It would be very romantic!”

 

“Oikawa-san, I can’t let y-“

 

“You will let me. You can take your spikey friend and his partners too!”

 

“You’re not adding four people onto your guest list when it’s three weeks away,” Akaashi hisses. “I said no, and that’s final. Me and Tetsurou aren’t on speaking terms anyway.”

 

Oikawa glares and that’s apparently Suga’s cue to get up and go get a glass of water. As he stumbles away, Oikawa scoots closer and throws his arm around Akaashi’s shoulder. 

 

“Keiji-kun, I’m doing this because I genuinely want you at my wedding.” Oikawa turns to look Akaashi in the eye, brown irises wide with an honesty he could never convey through words. “Invite whoever you want, I have a whole horde of uncles and cousins declining last minute after remembering Hajime’s not a pretty woman.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Akaashi says genuinely, “that can’t be easy.”

 

Oikawa just clicks his teeth and tilts his chin quickly, eyes shining like steel, ruthless royalty painted over his drunken facade. “That’s their choice. They’re going to miss out on a very fun party because of some petty prejudice. It’s not my problem.”

 

“I understand,” Akaashi nods. “You’re still wearing the reception dress?”

 

“Yep!” Oikawa smiles. There’s a beat of silence before his face drops in a pleasant realization. “Tell you what, you come and I’ll pay you to take some pictures in my dress. Then you get to add ‘Oikawa Tooru’s wedding’ to your portfolio and I get to have you there.”

 

“You’re not budging on this are you?” Akaashi asks, fond smile playing at his lips. 

 

With another flash of white teeth, Oikawa lays his head against Akaashi’s shoulder. “Nope,” he giggles. 

 

Akaashi brings his bottle of water up to his lips, eyebrows knitted as he swallows it down. “Why do you want me there so bad?”

 

The air grows solemn, intense with just one phrase. The look Oikawa gives him is so  _ earnest  _ it send a shiver down his spine. “You’re a good person, Keiji-kun. You’re good for Bokkun _.  _ He’s been wracked by this guilt for  _ so long _ , something about you and ‘Tetsu’ and I’ve never been able to figure out what he meant by that…”

 

Akaashi squeezes his eyes closed and nods. His chest is heavy. His stomach churns. 

 

“I don’t really believe in fate, but he talks about you like you’ve strung the stars in the sky. You have a second chance to fix whatever mess that went on and I think you should take it.” Oikawa leans forward and plucks a chocolate out of the candy bowl Suga has on his coffee table. He chews it obnoxiously, letting Akaashi stew in his words before speaking again. “Besides, you’re my friend now. It’s gonna be great fun and it would be nice to have you there.”

 

At that, a sigh escapes Akaashi’s lips. He lowers his voice to a murmur. “I’ll go.”

 

Oikawa smiles, giddy joy taking over his face. “What was that?” he teases. 

 

“I said I’ll go, you ass!” Akaashi shouts with a stupid grin. “Now get off me.”

 

“Keiji’s going!” Oikawa yells into the kitchen and Suga runs in, three champagne glasses overflowing in hand. 

 

“Oh thank gods!” Suga says gleefully. He sets the glasses down and envelopes Akaashi in an uncomfortably tight hug. Akaashi pushes him off with a loud laugh from the bottom of his stomach. “You’re going to have so much fun! Oh, I’m excited!” Suga speaks swiftly, pushing the glasses into his friends’ hands. “I was supposed to get water but I guess champagne will suffice?! It’s a celebration!”

 

Akaashi leans back, thoughtfully looking toward the ceiling. He tips the glass back and relishes in the feeling of the bubbles in his throat. “Yes,” he says, “I guess it is.”

 

-

 

It’s the smell that Akaashi loves the most about the Kozume house, that rich smell of homemade cooking, the spices that drift through air and hang there. Today, it’s a rich sweet smell, Kozume-san’s signature bibingka. 

 

“Pardon the intrusion,” Akaashi mutters. He drops his practice bag, sending a quick text to his mother, reminding her that he’s alive and with Kenma, before he plops himself down onto one of the bar stools. 

 

“Are Kuroo-san and Bokuto-san over?” he asks. It takes just a moment for a bowl to arrive in front of him, chankonabe with a large helping of rice. It smells  _ gorgeous,  _ drawing a loud growl from his stomach. 

 

Kozume-san turns on her heel to face him, smile wide on her face. “They’re upstairs with Ken-chan. You can join them once you’ve finished.” Her voice is clear, equal parts commanding as it is melodic. 

 

Akaashi doesn’t protest, just proclaims his thanks, picks up the spoon, and hums in appreciation as the broth travels down his throat. Kozume-san busies herself with her baking. Her petite frame bends down, extracting the cake from the oven, humming to herself. 

 

She looks exactly like Kenma; the resemblance is uncanny. From her long dark hair to her piercing eyes to her soft demeanor, there’s no questioning whose child Kenma is. The only difference is that soft, welcoming disposition Kenma hasn’t quite developed yet; it would be a miracle if he ever did. Her love of life and of others is apparent. It’s laced in her warm encouraging words and heartfelt conversations, filling her home with unmistakable familiarity that Akaashi has yet to find anywhere else.

 

“How are you, Keiji-kun?” Kozume-san asks, a soft gentle prod at Akaashi’s comfort zone. He swallows, ponders the answer before speaking. 

 

“I’m okay,” he says, flat in a way that he hopes doesn’t show the fluttering deep in his gut. 

 

She plops down next to him, fixing him with a hard stare. “That’s bullshit,” she says plainly. 

 

Akaashi whips his head around to face her, eyebrows knit. Damn her perceptiveness, he doesn’t  _ want  _ to talk about it. Well, actually, he does, but he doesn’t even know where to start. 

 

“I-“

 

“Kou-chan.”

 

“How di-“

 

“You’ve been into him since Ken-chan’s first dragged you boys back here,” she says plainly. “You look at him like Tetsu-chan looks at anyone who’s ever shown interest in him.” She begins to laugh to herself. “Poor hopeless kid falls in love with anyone who looks at him twice…”

 

Akaashi blinks owlishly at her, head spinning in a thousand different directions. His face burns bright red, nerves traveling to the tips of his fingers. 

 

“How does one, erm, go about asking out someone they love?” he asks, eyes fixated on the bowl in front of him. 

 

Kozume-san smiles, but it’s far away, lonely. “There’s no specific formula, Keiji-kun. Kou-chan is different than most and you’ll have to be careful. He hasn’t dated anyone in the two years I’ve known him, which is weird considering how open he is about his emotions. He’s got hidden insecurities, stuff he needs to deal with before involving someone else…” She lowers her golden eyes, glowing soft peachy hues that fight the inky dark just outside the window. Her face has fallen into something vulnerable yet closed off all at once. “You never want to wait too long though. I’d give anything to get more time with Isko…”

 

Akaashi bows his head, falling deep into thought, because he had been ready this time. He was going to ask Bokuto out after nationals, he’d planned it out, all the way down to the note he’d write and the flowers he’d buy. 

 

But it’s all true. Kozume-san’s perceptions have always been true, but it’s even more apparent now. Bokuto’s only been on testosterone for a week. His head probably has been dragged in so many different directions. Akaashi’s a fool for not noticing. 

 

Now isn’t the right time. 

 

“How long then?” Akaashi asks, looking up at her. “When is the right time?”

 

Kozume-san jumps off the barstool and winks at him. “You’ll know, Keiji-kun, you’ll know.”

 

-

 

_ From Bokuto Koutarou _

 

_ what’s ur favorite flower? _

  
  


_ To Bokuto Koutarou  _

 

_ Daffodils. _

_ Why do you ask? _

 

_ From Bokuto Koutarou  _

 

_ no reason! _

_ i was just wonderin  _

_ what about baby’s breath  _

_ those are my favorites _

 

_ To Bokuto Koutarou  _

 

_ Those are very pretty.  _

_ I think bluebells are gorgeous.  _

_ My mother had them at her wedding.  _

 

_ From Bokuto Koutarou  _

 

_ ohhh!!!!!!!! those are pretty kaashi!!!! _

_ blue like your eyes!!!! _

_ are her eyes blue? _

 

_ To Bokuto Koutarou  _

 

_ Yes… _

_ I have to go. Haiba-kun dropped another camera.  _

_ I’ll see you tomorrow at Sugawara-san’s? _

 

_ From Bokuto Koutarou  _

 

_ ya!!! see you then!!! _

 

-

 

Akaashi’s favorite clients are the models. Young, up and coming people with fresh faces; the ones that have visions with all sorts of flowy makeup and decadent outfits that make him regret putting his talents to use as a family photographer. They’re few and far between, looking to start their portfolio, taking advantage of Akaashi’s rather cheap freelance prices. 

 

Today, he’s working with one Kita Shinsuke, a quiet man from Kyoto with large inviting eyes and unique two-toned hair that gives him an unprecedented edge. He opens up to the camera, black flowing tendrils rippling from his skirt, and he’s completely captivating. 

 

Akaashi smiles and clicks the camera. The shot is stunning, Kita looking ethereal as the black mesh seems to swallow him whole. 

 

“Absolutely stunning, Kita-san,” Akaashi says, arrowing through the images on the screen. Kita leans over his shoulder, humming in appreciation. “We’re going to get you in your last look. You can take five, catch a break and call Suna-san back in, okay?”

 

Kita nods again before quietly murmuring his thanks and bowing away. He swishes with quiet grace that Akaashi envies, completely calm and in control. 

 

Hanamaki pops his head in the door, that shit eating grin plastered across his face. Alarm bells sound in Akaashi’s head. 

 

“A-kaa-shi-kun!” Hanamaki sing-songs, positively glowing. 

 

“Someone’s got a delivery!” Matsukawa adds on stepping into the studio doorframe and-

 

_ Oh.  _

 

A bouquet- no, an entire flower field- sits in Matsukawa’s hands, blue and yellow springing up in wild directions. He sets it down and Akaashi stares wide eyed at the delivery taking up half the space of his expansive desk. There’s no doubt who it’s from with the bluebells spilling over the sides and the daffodils dotting through the center. It’s an absolutely stunning piece, must’ve cost a small fortune with the sheer volume and quality. Akaashi feels his heart hammering in his chest. 

 

Hanamaki hangs off of Matsukawa’s shoulder, still grinning with those closed off eyes like he knows something Akaashi doesn’t. 

 

“Who’s it from, lover boy,” Matsukawa taunts.

 

“Oh there’s a card!” Hanamaki cries, bounding forward and snatching the paper before Akaashi can stop him. He dashes, snatching too late at the empty air. The paper, textured and pink, floats above him, held out of reach by his  _ shit head boss _ . 

 

“Matsukawa-san,” he hisses, attempting to clamber his way up a living  _ fucking tree, gods.  _ He jumps up, but his efforts are made in vain. “You’re making me look,” he jumps and swipes up again, “stupid in front of,” another useless leap, “my client!”

 

Matsukawa remains largely unaffected. “I lent you the studio space without charging a single yen, be grateful,” he mutters, shoving a gigantic hand in Akaashi’s face and pushing back. 

 

With a sigh, Akaashi surrenders to fate, collapsing back into one of the spare chairs as Matsukawa clears his throat. 

 

“Dear Akaashi-san-“

 

“Oh, so formal,” Hanamaki muses over Akaashi’s shoulder, to which Akaashi places a well aimed kick at his shin. 

 

“You said you loved bluebells! And daffodils! So I got you both! I hope you like them!”

 

Akaashi’s never been so embarrassed in his life, honestly, and he hung around Kuroo when his hair was at a weird half mullet length. Akaashi blushes, red splotching all over his body. He attempts to hide himself in his turtleneck, but the next sentence makes him pop up like a sapling from the dirt. 

 

“I cordially invite you out Friday night for a date at  _ Aragawa _ , all expenses paid. Wear your best dress and probably some good walking shoes. I dunno if a dress and tennis shoes is a good look, though. Let me know if you can come!”

 

Akaashi’s face drops in horror. _Gods_ he’s so embarrassed, he could die but at the same time he’s absolutely elated. _Bokuto Koutarou,_ the love of his life, just asked him out on a date. 

 

“Holy shit,” Akaashi whispers, eyes wide. 

 

“Akaashi-kun has a date!” Hanamaki shouts loud enough to draw Kita and Suna’s attention. 

 

“With a world famous athlete!” Matsukawa cheers on. “And look at this! He signed it, Keiji-kun! A cute little ‘Love, Koutarou’!”

 

“Please tell me you’re going to accept,” Hanamaki says, gripping Akaashi’s shoulders. “Fucking  _ Aragawa _ ! Bring us back some leftovers.”

 

Akaashi takes the opportunity to get up and snatch the letter from Matsukawa. His eyes scan over the words once, and then three times more, just to make sure it’s real while his superiors continue their useless chatter. Sure enough, it’s true, every single word, down to the signature at the very end. 

 

“Of course I’m going,” Akaashi murmurs. “I would be an idiot not to.” 

 

It was supposed to be to himself, a belated answer to commit himself to, but the dream team overheard and it’s almost hilarious how they literally  _ lose their shit.  _

 

Matsukawa’s lazy eyes open wide and he moves with childish glee to pick up Akaashi, squeezing tight enough to draw a cough out. Hanamaki, for his part, has started screeching like a banshee and hopping around the studio. “Akaashi-kun has a date!” Hanamaki yelps, startling Akaashi’s client from where he’s sat, peacefully catching a quick nap on his break. 

 

Akaashi just stares at the paper. Even with the commotion around him, the unknown excitement ahead of him, he feels at peace. There’s a certain assurance that comes with knowing one's feelings are returned; it couldn’t be more clear. No one asks their friend out to one of Tokyo’s most lavish steakhouses with an arrangement of flowers fit for royalty. It’s a sign. Bokuto’s serious about this and nothing could be more a relief. 

 

He kicks Matsukawa and Hanamaki out, apologizing profusely to Kita. They finish the photo shoot on high note, Kita flashing his flowery gown at the camera as Akaashi mind travels miles away, thinking of  _ Aragawa’ _ s wagyu beef and Bokuto’s wide, unending smile. 

 

-

 

Akaashi sits at the foot of his bed, head between his hands. His breathing is ragged and shallow, icy panic building in the pit of his stomach. 

 

It’s a simple decision really, wear a dress, as the letter specified, or wear a nice button down with his work slacks. There shouldn’t be a debate. Akaashi knows what he wants to wear, but there’s fear growing inside of him. 

 

He wants to wear the dress. It’s gorgeous. Handmade by a friend from university with a passion for flowing black silks and golden threading. Designed specifically for Akaashi, it drapes downward out at the back, stooping low enough to show his lithe shoulder blades, and wrapping around his arms. It was made to complement the femininity of his appearance. He thinks that’s what scares him the most. 

 

Akaashi likes the emotion he gets when he puts it on. There’s a hidden part of him that feels complete beneath the flowing fabrics and heavy mascara. 

 

It’s the stares that he doesn’t like and he can’t place that burden on Bokuto, not tonight. He recalls his third year anniversary with Ennoshita, the one where he’d bought Akaashi a gorgeous emerald gown and brought him to a nightclub in Kabukicho. 

 

The looks Akaashi got when he talked were the worst. There were whispers, hateful words hidden in the gazes of bartenders and cab drivers alike that made Akaashi never want to wear a dress ever again. 

 

Some days, he couldn’t care less what people think, but today is important. 

 

Akaashi runs his hands through his curls. He tugs hard enough to send pain stinging down his spine. He counts his breaths as they fill deep in his lungs. He waits for the waves of panic start to pass. 

 

The data pad on his bed chimes. With slow, shaky movements, Akaashi goes to fetch it. 

 

_ Bokuto Koutarou  _

 

_ im here!!!! _

 

Akaashi curses to himself and those waves come right back, only amplified. He hasn’t felt this panicked in weeks, since Ennoshita and the ramen shop, and it’s like ice is freezing in his lungs. His reply come out stunted, captured in rough breaks as his fingers shake hard enough to rattle the data pad. 

 

_ To Bokuto Koutarou  _

 

_ PAplease gfive me a momenf  _

 

He swallows. Grounding techniques. That’s all he has to do. Bring himself down from the icy clouds. Stop overthinking. Just breathe, slowly but surely; take in his surroundings as they are and not as they seem to be. 

 

Things that are: The sky is blue. The earth is round. His hair is black. He’s going on a date with Bokuto Koutarou. 

 

Akaashi squeezes his eyes shut. 

 

Things that aren’t: Everyone will think he’s weird for wearing a dress. He will embarrass himself. He will look ridiculous in front of Bokuto. 

 

There’s a knock at his front door and Akaashi doesn’t remember the tears when they start to roll down, fast and hard. It can’t be. This can’t be. He’s going to embarrass himself. He’s going to look dumb. Bokuto’s going to hate him. 

 

Akaashi answers the door in a half frozen, half shaken trance. He thinks very briefly that this isn’t the way he intended to tell Bokuto about the anxiety he developed in the absence of Kozume-san. He hasn’t talked to Bokuto about  _ any  _ of the important things, what on earth was he thinking accepting this da-

 

“Akaashi Keiji,” Bokuto says, but it’s very slow and gentle, unlike anything Bokuto has ever been. He looks a bit disheveled, winded from bolting up to Akaashi’s apartment, concern laced in golden irises and shining so bright. “Akaashi breathe for me, please.”

 

It’s an inviting tone, something warm to melt his freezing chest. Akaashi breathes, deep and slow. For every three Bokuto takes, he inhales one. 

 

It takes awhile for his breath to come out smooth. It takes awhile for his hands to stop shaking.  It takes awhile for his mind to settle down and when he finally pulls his head from the clouds, Bokuto has hugged him close. 

 

Akaashi coughs out his breath. Squeezing his eyes closed he begins to whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He cuddles into Bokuto’s chest, burying his mascara streaked face out of site. 

 

“It’s okay, ‘Kaashi,” Bokuto says back, gently but brightly. “You’re okay! Don’t worry about it.”

 

Akaashi shakes his head, ducking his neck down in shame. He’s a wreck, still in his sweats, no shirt, numb to the tips of his fingers. He hasn’t eaten anything all day save for a sugary cup of coffee with Suga. Emptiness fills him up to the brim until he’s too far away to cry anymore. 

 

He settles himself in Bokuto’s arms. 

 

“It’s okay ‘Kaashi. It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

 

Several minutes pass before Akaashi can untangle himself. “I’m sorry,” he says very quietly, eyes half lidded in the dark of his apartment. 

 

Bokuto waves his hand in front of the door causing several lights to slowly turn on until darkness is banished from the genkan. Akaashi breathes, blinks, and the world comes into focus. 

 

“Ya’ wanna talk about it?” Bokuto asks, cocking his head to the side while he toes off his shoes. 

 

Akaashi sighs. “No, not really, but it’s suggested that I should,” he replies flatly. “Come in. I’ll make you some tea.”

 

Bokuto bows his head quickly and it’s then that Akaashi finally takes in all of the man before him. The black turtleneck stretching across broad shoulders, hugging his incredibly built chest. His figure is quite handsome, very mature, so unlike the Bokuto Akaashi once knew. Still, not unwelcome. 

 

Akaashi runs his eyes up and down Bokuto. “You look handsome,” he says. “Black suits you.”

 

“Thanks!” Bokuto lights up with the most beautiful smile and it’s a miracle Akaashi doesn’t pull him down right there and kiss him senseless. 

 

Instead, Akaashi takes Bokuto’s hand, guides him to the kitchen, sits him down on one of the barstools, and busies himself with putting on the kettle. 

 

He clicks the stove on, staring at his fingertips before deciding to speak. “I have generalized anxiety disorder, developed it after Kozume-san passed away.” Akaashi swallows very slowly. “What time are our reservations for?”

 

He turns around and almost laughs at the puzzled look on Bokuto’s face, obviously thrown off by the rapid diversion Akaashi had set. 

 

Bokuto raises an eyebrow. “Seven? We have an hour… Akaashi I-”

 

“I apologize for the breakdown.” Akaashi’s voice grows wobbly again. “I was worried about my attire for the night.”

 

Bokuto blinks up at Akaashi. “Why?”

 

Akaashi looks to the floor in shame. “You said I should wear a dress, in the invitation letter.” He bites at the frail, chapped skin of his lips. “It’s not the best idea. People like to stare.”

 

Bokuto just shrugs. Just a casual lift and fall of his shoulders, but it does so much to calm the storm in Akaashi’s head. “Do you want to wear a dress?” he asks with all the earnesty in the world.

 

He’s warm, richly hued by the overhead lights. He cuts through the dark grey outside and shines  _ so bright _ . Akaashi finds himself letting out a peaceful exhale. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then put it on.”

 

“Bokuto-san, people will be looking at us an-”

 

Akaashi hadn’t noticed Bokuto standing up, circling around the counter to grip his hand, tight with reassurance. “Let them stare, Akaashi, I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

 

Akaashi inhales. Bokuto leans around him and shuts the stove off. “Go put on the dress.” There’s something unspoken in his soft gaze, something promising and breathtaking all at once. 

 

The waves settle, lapping gently at the shores of Akaashi’s mind. He turns on his heel to go get ready with a resolution settled heavy in his chest.

 

It will be okay. Tonight is just for him and Bokuto. 

 

-

 

The atmosphere of the restaurant should have made Akaashi nervous. It’s all glittering gold and high end prices that should’ve made his eyes pop out of his skull, but Bokuto has taken care of it all. Akaashi’s stomach is full, his eyes half lidded as he lazily sips at a gorgeous red wine that the waiter keeps topping off.

 

“Can I call you Keiji?” Bokuto says softly. He’s happy, Akaashi can tell by the blush high on his cheeks and the smile that hasn’t left his lips.

 

“As long as I can call you Koutarou,” Akaashi replies. He reaches across the table and grabs Bokuto’s hand, running fingers over the the leather bracelet, the kanji carving of  _ Koutarou _ ridged into the material. 

 

“Of course!”

 

There’s a beat of silence when the waiter brings over the bill. Bokuto pulls out his card and Akaashi lets him, no questions asked. The quiet between them sits comfortably.

 

“I’m in love with you,” Bokuto says.

 

It’s a simple statement, murmured low enough to hide under the quiet chatter of the restaurant, but enough to take the breath from Akaashi’s lungs. His heart stutters in his chest. A warm, blushy smile takes over his face as he lowers his head into his hands.

 

Bokuto laughs, snorting loud enough to turn heads. Everyone’s staring, just like Akaashi feared, but in the end it doesn’t matter. The dress he wears doesn’t matter, nor does the gold on his eyelids. All that does are the hands squeezing his so tightly.

 

“Funny thing,” Akaashi giggles back, “I’m kinda in love with you too.”

 

“Yeah since like, second year when you lost your voice screaming at Fukuzawa-san and you-”

 

“I called him a bitch!”

 

They collapse down to the table, laughing, finally with the truth laid bare between them. It’s the right time, just like Kozume-san had told him all those years ago. 

 

It feels so organic and unforced. They’re not kids anymore with sweaty palms and confession letters, but it’s still the same freedom. Akaashi’s chest is light. It moves up and down under the beautiful black fabric, unweighted by guilt.

 

“When I did that radio interview, I was hoping you’d hear,” Bokuto says when his shoulders stop shaking with laughter. His face grows serious, almost solemn, but his eyes are bright. Akaashi squeezes his hand and urges him to continue. “I’ve missed you so much. You were the first person who really believed in me and it killed me not to have you around… Ah, geez that sounds so dumb…”

 

“Koutarou,” Akaashi murmurs. “You’re okay. I get it.”

 

“It’s just,” Bokuto pulls at his hair, “I love you  _ so much _ Akaa- wait no-  _ Keiji _ . Like.” He pauses to make a frustrated noise while Akaashi laughs fondly. “I don’t think you know, but it’s you, it’s always been you!”

 

Akaashi thinks of Ennoshita, just briefly, how far away they always were, and it clicks. Even then, it had always been Bokuto. Bokuto and his astounding strength. Bokuto and his wide eyes and ridiculous hair. Bokuto and his love so loud it fills the room.

 

“Y-you too,” Akaashi stutters. “Always you.”

 

“So like, can you be my boyfriend then?” Bokuto asks, tilting his head to the side.

 

“Of course.”

 

The look of absolute elation on Bokuto’s face is one Akaashi will never forget. He’s got this crooked smile plastered there and a glossy sheen over his pupils. The waiter comes back, handing Bokuto his card and he can’t help himself, beaming at the man before blurting, “That’s my boyfriend!” pointing to Akaashi.

 

The man grins, a bit patronizing, but he congratulates Bokuto anyway, and they’re free to go.

 

And it’s surreal because Akaashi leaves happy, holding onto Bokuto,  _ his boyfriend. _

 

-

 

In all of his twenty-three years living in Tokyo, Akaashi has never taken the initiative to visit the SkyTree, which is really such a shame, as Bokuto repeats over and over, handing his card over to purchase a pair of tickets. They stand at the foot of the monument. Akaashi stares upward and tries very hard not to think of elevators breaking or sudden structural collapse.

 

And then there’s the issue of Bokuto’s fame, making itself apparent as they’ve been standing at the bottom for a good five minutes as fans keep stopping the pair of them, asking Bokuto for autographs and pictures. Akaashi finds himself a bit impatient. Still, it’s a beautiful thing to watch. Bokuto signs every item with a smile as bright as the sun, standing to take silly pictures with grateful fans as the sun sets slowly behind them.

 

They look at Akaashi too with curious eyes. He remains silent, only breaking his stoney face to give Bokuto a warm grin.

 

On the elevator, tourists seem to respect their privacy more. It’s easier to lean closer to Bokuto and link their hands together in the corner of the crowded space. The bells rings. The door opens. Gently, Akaashi lets himself be guided by Bokuto to the edge of the first sky deck and.... oh.  

 

All of Tokyo spreads below them, miles of light, low and burning into the night. Akaashi breathes out an audible gasp. He leans on his tiptoes and traces a neatly manicured finger along the fiery sunset reflected in the Sumida. The last light of day spreads in long days from the very edge of suburbia leaking oranges and yellows onto the skyscrapers. It reminds him of the sunsets near his grandparents’ shrine, the golden sheen that hung onto to every own surface, quiet beauty blessed by the spirits themselves; God’s own country. 

 

Bokuto comes from behind, and settles his hands on either side of Akaashi’s hips. It takes all the strength in Akaashi not to jerk away, fearing for the looks he’d receive, and instead accepts Bokuto's affections with a smile.

 

“After my last day of practice during third year, Konoha and Komi took me here as a surprise, like, ‘thank you for being such an amazing captain, Bokuto-san!’ type thing, ya’ know,” he says in a low murmur, so only the two of them can hear. “And I was just in one of those, like, moods that I used to get. Because Meiji’s original scholarship…”

 

He trails off but Akaashi knows well, how they would only give him the grant if he played on the women’s team, how the Bokutos had to fight tooth and nail with administration to get him where he belonged.

 

And perhaps, just maybe, that’s why Akaashi is so in love with Bokuto. There’s something romantic in his resilience, something beautiful in his strength even when things get bad, how he can light up a court just by walking onto it. Akaashi turns on his heel away from the view and at his lover, blinking wide eyes in a subtle signal to continue.

 

“I think Komiyan was just tryin’ real hard to get me to feel better but he spread his arms wide, like, gesturing to the whole city and he told me ‘One day, this whole city’s gonna know your name Bokkun’ and he was right but..” Bokuto looks down, head hanging in shame. “I sorta just, gave you up because of it. And I wanna make it up to you.”

 

“Koutarou,” Akaashi breathes. By gods, he wants to kiss this ridiculous man, right here. It takes all the modesty lessons ingrained in him to stop himself, instead settling for a subtle squeeze of the hand.

 

Later. He’ll do it later.

 

“I’ll spend my whole life makin’ up for it if I have to.”

 

Later. When they get down for the tower. When they’re in front of Akaashi’s apartment. Then they can kiss softly, so slowly. It’s time now, and now they have all from time that the world has to offer. 

 

-

 

Later comes sooner because when Bokuto Koutarou invites you to his apartment with round eyes shining like one of those labrador puppies, one doesn’t just say no. Akaashi surely doesn’t, at least. 

 

And now they’re sitting on the couch in Bokuto’s fancy inner city penthouse drinking decaf because it turns out that caffeine is a bit problematic in combination with Bokuto’s erratic sleep schedule. Which works out well for Akaashi. It’s just the two of them, contented with each other’s presence and that’s what makes the moment so very special.

 

It’s an ordinary second like any other where Akaashi makes that decision, to jump for what he wants, so he sneaks his hands around Bokuto’s neck as he’s mid sentence on a rant about how watermelon with seeds in is actually very good and underrated and everyone is just a lazy prude afraid to spit. 

 

“I’m going to kiss you,” Akaashi says.

 

“Okay,” Bokuto replies.

 

And so, they do.

 

At first, Akaashi kisses with tentative caution, closed mouths lying against each other with slow lazy movement. Going nowhere, yet stopping for no one. They kiss and they kiss and they kiss, just like this in the dim evening light, Akaashi falling into Bokuto’s broad warmth without guilt.

 

Bokuto is the first to prod, opening his mouth for Akaashi to follow suite. Their tongues meet in the middle, sliding just past each other in an attempt to get as close as possible to the other, heads tilted to the side, eyelashes squeezed between shut lids, spreading shadows down the planes of their faces. One hand cradles Akaashi’s head like it’s the most precious gift in the world while the other wraps around his waist and lowers him until he’s laying on back, control completely relinquished to his lover. 

 

They lay like this for awhile and inbetween, Bokuto asks with a quiver in his voice if Akaashi has to be anywhere tomorrow morning. Akaashi doesn’t reply. He hooks his ankles around Bokuto’s waist and gives him an answer with a deep kiss. 

 

He wonder if their silhouettes look joined as one from the window view. He hopes.

 

Akaashi stays the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any/all comments, kudos, and/or reads are much appreciated. thank you so much.
> 
> consider following me on twitter @ugliegay, and perhaps check out my tennis au?! thank you


	5. life/death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He strikes a match, lights the incense. The yellow flame burns bright. From the satchel on his back, he extracts a bundle of beautiful red roses. 
> 
> And he begins to speak with a cracked voice. 
> 
> “I’ve written a thousand letters to you since you died,” Bokuto murmurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we are. the last full chapter everyone...
> 
> TW for brief descriptions of transphobia, anxiety attacks, and heavy talk about death and dying
> 
> NOTE THE RATING CHANGE
> 
> FROM "It’s dark in Bokuto’s apartment" to "It’s with reluctance that they detach from each other" IS EXPLICIT! 
> 
> As a warning to my fellow trans friends, descriptive words about Bokuto's genitals are used, as well as a few moments of sex related dysphoria from Bokuto, (to which Akaashi calms, but still). If these are sensitive subjects to you, I suggest skipping over the explicit part. Thank you.

_ To Kuroo Tetsurou  _

 

_ We have to talk.  _

 

_ You can’t keep ignoring me.  _

 

Akaashi shoves his data pad into his skirt pocket, an annoyed frown cutting across his face. He mutters his order, a decaf black with three sugars, to the excited blond guy across the counter, one of the many new hires at  _ Sugawara’s.  _

 

“What’s got you so frowny, Keiji-kun?” Oikawa comes from behind him and loops a hand around his neck. “You’ve been scowling since you walked in.”

 

“Tetsurou is still being a dickhead,” Akaashi replies. He ducks under Oikawa’s arm and snatches his drink off the counter with only a slight, quick nod at the worker. 

 

Shuffling to a booth in the corner, he plops down next to Bokuto. Oikawa shuffles not too far behind. Iwaizumi sits across from him, raising his hands to help guide Oikawa down to the chair. No one speaks for a good minute or two while Akaashi’s expression grows more and more murderous by the minute. 

 

“You have to go talk to him.” Oikawa breaks the silence as he pulls a digital magazine chip from his pocket, inserts it into his data pad. From the projector comes a headline from an English sports magazine.

 

**KOUTAROU BOKUTO SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY PERSON**

**_Sources tell all about romantic Sky Tree date_ **

 

“It won’t be long until this blows up, Akaashi-kun,” Iwaizumi says quietly. “He’ll only get even more pissed off.”

 

Akaashi sighs, eyes growing narrow as he throws back his coffee, scalding his tongue. Under the table, Bokuto’s hand squeezes his. Bokuto remains quiet, contemplative with his brow creased.

 

“I’ll go,” Akaashi says. “I’ll go to Meiji. At least extend an invitation to the wedding, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to be nice.” He crunches his face up. “I’m still upset.”

 

“Oh really,’ Oikawa replies, tongue dripping with sarcasm, “I couldn’t tell.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Yeah, shut up, ‘Kawa-kun,” Bokuto tacks on, smiling fondly down at Akaashi. A light grin plays at Akaashi’s lips as he finds himself unable to be completely troubled with Bokuto around.

 

“Ugh, so annoying,” Oikawa mumbles, “Already so far up Keiji-kun’s ass, might as well rent an apartment up there.” Akaashi scoffs. Bokuto nods his agreement.

 

After a soft nod from Iwaizumi, Oikawa stands up. “We have to go, something about a final cake tasting...”

 

He’s more tired these days, a dulled out version of the Oikawa that Akaashi had come to know. There’s something missing in his charming brown eyes that even wedding planning can’t bring back. It concerns Akaashi. His heart aches. He watches them leave, visibly deflating in his chair.

 

He’s helpless.

 

“Hey,” Bokuto whispers. “Keiji.”

 

Distantly, Akaashi’s reply comes under the murmur of the coffee shop. “Yes, Koutarou?”

 

“It’s gonna be okay.”

 

Akaashi turns his head toward Bokuto. A headache starts to throb at his temples, but Bokuto’s fingers interlaced with his own makes his heart rate slow.

 

“I miss Tetsurou,” he says. “I want everything to be back to normal.” His eyes trace the snowflakes down falling outside. Grey and white swirl in front of the window. “I’m just not sure if he can reconcile me being with you.”

 

Boktuo’s shoulders sag, but the smile on his mouth never slips. He continues with his quiet, gentle support, despite all the hurt he must feel, and in that moment Akaashi makes a decision. He won’t be helpless. If there’s one thing he can change, it’s this.

 

“I can fix this,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Bokuto to hear, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb onto the hand lying under the table. 

 

_ Because I need you both in my life. _ This part goes unsaid, but it’s easy enough to read in Akaashi’s earnest eyes. If they were in private, he’d kiss Bokuto until every last bit of insecurity and doubt was gone.

 

Instead, he drains his coffee to the very last sip. Without an ounce of hesitation, he pulls his data pad from his pocket and begins to type furiously.

 

_ To Kuroo Tetsurou _

 

_ Fine then. Have it your way. _

 

_ I’m coming to Meiji. _

 

-

 

“Kuroo Tetsurou, you better have a good fucking explanation as to why you’re not answering my texts!”

 

Akaashi barrels into the lecture hall with determination running solid red through his blood. He’s pissed off, livid at this stupid, ridiculous man who seems to think ignoring him like a childish ex-lover is the most appropriate response to something far more complicated than the both of them could ever comprehend. He whips his hat off his head, sending melted droplets of snow everywhere. It is only then, after blinking harshly against the bright lights, does it register that Professor Kuroo Tetsurou indeed has a full class, every last one of those nineteen year olds looking at Akaashi like he had just grown another head.

 

Kuroo, for his part, looks about as angry as Akaashi feels. He’s flushed crimson, brow knit down over his eyes. He walks over from his spot at the podium and pulls Akaashi by his shirt collar into the hallway. The confused whispers only increase in volume as Kuroo shuts the door behind them and turns to face Akaashi with anger burning low in his expression.

 

“Are you trying to get me fucking fired?!” Kuroo grits out between sharp teeth, hand still digging hard in to Akaashi’s sweater.

 

“All you had to do is answer your texts instead of ignoring me like we’re in high school again!” Akaashi shouts back, uncaring at the scene he’s causing because  _ gods _ he’s so _ tired _ .

 

“As if what you’re doing right now is the height of fucking maturity, Keiji,” Kuroo scoffs. “This is my  _ job _ !”

 

“If I would’ve gone to your home, you’d slam the door in my face! If I caught you at Kenma’s, you would’ve refused to talk to me because I know how you are, Tetsurou!”

 

They’re in each other’s faces, teeth bared like dogs, just inches from snapping. Akaashi’s hands shake at his sides, balled into fists and stiff by his waist, frozen in his rage. “I’ll be waiting in the office with Kenma,” he says, low, cold as ice. “Meet me after you’re done here.”

 

“And what if I don’t wanna?” Kuroo raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at his lips because he thinks he’s won. 

 

“If you want to salvage this friendship,” Akaashi replies, “you will.”

 

It’s all he needs. The words drain the fight from Kuroo. Hands at Akaashi’s collar fall limp until they plop down heavily, regret written all over Kuroo’s face. There’s a tiredness settled into the violet creases under his eyes, skin having grown pale and dull since Akaashi walked out three weeks ago. 

 

Suddenly, the guilt Akaashi feels is enormous. 

 

He wants to lower himself onto the tiled floor and beg for Kuroo’s forgiveness, but he has to stand his ground. It’s the only way, the only path to fixing what shattered between them. 

 

Akaashi nods, turns on his heel, and heads for main hall. He doesn’t look back. 

 

-

 

The time passes ever so slowly, every second seeming to drag itself out until Akaashi feels like he’s going to burst. His heart won’t stop hammering in his chest. 

 

Kenma, for his part, doesn’t exactly help, but that’s to be expected. He sits at Kuroo’s desk, fiddling with an old school gaming device until he gets frustrated and resorts to staring. Silence blankets the room as large golden eyes study Akaashi over and over again and he thinks maybe Kenma might say something. Maybe, he’ll yell at Akaashi, scream until his voice goes raw. Akaashi almost wishes that would happen.

 

Instead, Kenma stares.

 

It’s a miracle when Kuroo enters, breaking the silence with his loud presence. Even after what seems like an eternity of being friends with Kuroo, his command of the room always stuns Akaashi. He’s subtle, quiet, yet somehow, he can’t be ignored.

 

In this moment though, he’s the shell of this persona. It only just occurs to Akaashi that Kuroo wasn’t the sole reason for the icy divide between them.

 

“I’m sorry,” Akaashi begins, standing himself up tall, looking directly into Kuroo’s eye. “I’m sorry for not telling you, for overlooking your feelings, for being selfish in my own way.” He lowers himself all the way to the ground, knees trembling until he’s bowed low enough to feel the cool tile against his forehead. He hears a choking noise from Kuroo.

 

“Thank you,” Kuroo whispers, tone inlaid with disbelief and Akaashi gets up as fast as his aching bones allow him.

 

“But I’m not sorry for loving Bokuto-san and I’m not sorry for being the indulgent one for once.” He straightens his back, chest puffed, chin high. There’s nothing that could doubt his unapologetic love for Bokuto, and he wants to make sure that Kuroo knows that. “I’m not sorry for letting myself forgive him because despite everything, he was like a son to Kozume-san and I  _ refuse  _ to be vilified for loving him.”

 

Kuroo’s brow creases. His lip twitches. He angles his head down at Akaashi. “You want to do this in front of Kenma, huh?”

 

“Where else, Tetsurou?”

 

“I thought maybe you had more morals than that but I was wrong.” He crosses his arms and leans against the bleak, grey wall behind him. “I thought maybe you’d consider that Bokuto turned his back on  _ all of us _ for fame of all things.”

 

Akaashi scowls deeply, those white feelings of rage bubbling down in the pit of his stomach. “Oh get a fucking grip, you know it’s much deeper than that-”

 

“I don’t care! He abandoned you! He doesn’t love y-”

 

“Enough!” Akaashi shouts. It cuts through the air. Nothing echoes back, just the sound of his furious breathing and Kenma’s movements brushing against the quiet. “You know  _ nothing  _ about Bokuto-san’s love for me and this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. You’re still stuck in the past and have you ever, for one second, even thought of how that affects the rest of us trying to recover?” 

 

And that is the fatal blow, the strike that breaks the two of them right in half and Kuroo stands there, frozen for a few moments. 

 

Then come the whispers, soft and pierced with pain. “I’m sorry.” His face has fallen, lips quivering in an attempt to appear unaffected. “I’m so sorry, Keiji. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

 

He’s falling into Akaashi’s arms, and all that anger melts away, fades into something less viscous and a little more like forgiveness. 

 

Stiff bodied, Akaashi lets him cuddle in further, carding robotic strokes through his long, tangled hair. “I’m sorry as well,” Akaashi whispers. “You’re still my best friend, Tettsun.”

 

It takes awhile for Akaashi to relax, to grant himself just the tiniest amount of forgiveness for snapping so hard at some he loves so dearly. The weather outside is cold, harsh wind whipping snow against the building’s sides and whistling past windows, but here, with Kuroo back in his arms, he’s warm again. Whole again.

 

“I’m not asking you to forgive Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, voice low in Kuroo’s ear, “but I  _ am _ asking you to respect my decision to be with him.”

 

Kuroo lifts his head from Akaashi’s chest, eyes shot red from his tears. “I-I can do that.”

 

Akaashi smiles, relief sending warm tingles to every last nerve ending in his body. “Good.” He thumbs under Kuroo’s eyes, sighing with incredible fondness before leaning in and giving him a chaste kiss.

 

It’s like the planets have aligned, back again where everything should be in Akaashi’s life, how it was always meant to be. Kuroo as his best friend and Bokuto as his lover, as it should be.

 

A gentle yet purposeful cough resounds from the corner of the room, the desk where Kenma sits, watching with a very annoyed scowl on his face.

 

“Awe, Ken, is someone jealous?” Kuroo lifts his head to shoot Kenma a teary eyed grin. “You could always come join us.”

 

The grimace on Kenma’s face only tightens, but underneath it, there’s something shining in his eyes. When Kuroo moves to bury his head back in the crook of Akaashi’s neck, Kenma gives the tiniest smile.

 

“You’ve been invited to Oikawa Tooru’s wedding.” Akaashi decides now would be a great time to bring up this precarious fact, the digital invites lying in little wrapped boxes at the bottom of his messenger bag. He turns around and searches through it, hands closing around the boxes as Kuroo lets out an ugly chortle.

 

“Why on earth would Oikawa Tooru invite me to his wedding?” He sniffles, examining the package as Akaashi drops it into his hand.

 

Akaashi scoffs at that, tossing the other box to a tired Kenma who lets it drop to the floor with lazy eyes. “He’s forcing me to go, said I could take my friends. It’s on the 14th.”

 

“Right,” Kuroo says, voice growing distant, fading off somewhere far. “I’ll see if I can get off that day….”

 

Akaashi shifts on his heels. “You can bring Yamaguchi-san and Tsukishima-san, he’s lined up a hotel for us and everything… very generous…”

 

Kuroo’s eyes fall to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, before propping his head back up to meet Akaashi’s eyes. It’s that look Kuroo gives, that gaze that’s spellbinding in it’s honesty. Akaashi blinks, preparing for a hard hit.

 

“I…” Kuroo bites his lip. “Thank you, Keiji.”

 

The cracks haven’t been fully mended. Akaashi knows this. Kenma’s struggle, Kuroo’s grudge; they don’t disappear because of a single apology.

 

But it’s a start.

 

Akaashi lets a shaky breath pass from his nose. “Thank  _ you _ .. Tetsu.”

 

For the first time in a long time, he thinks things just might turn out alright. 

 

-

 

There’s a park with a koi pond three blocks south of  _ Sugawara’s _ that bends colors like magic in the spring and swirls bright white snow in the winter. Just a few more blocks beyond, Fukurodani’s building stands tall and proud against the early morning sunrise. Bokuto and Akaashi walk along the path, smiling and exchanging soft, chaste kisses in the wash of a winter’s dawn.

 

Bokuto had spent the night. He laid in bed next to Akaashi and drifted off to sleep within five minutes, and it’s processing through Akaashi’s mind that it  _ actually happened.  _ Akaashi woke up to Bokuto’s thumbs brushing gently under his eyes with whispers of “You’re so beautiful” in his ear.

 

It’s like a dream. None of this is supposed to be real, but as he nurses a coffee in his right hand, watching the rising oranges and yellows chase out the dark of night, he falls a little bit more for Bokuto’s unending smile.

 

“It’s so unreal,” Bokuto murmurs, half to himself, half to Akaashi. “I always go on mornin’ jogs and I see this everyday, Keiji! It’s beautiful, ya’ know, but I’ve never had anyone to share it with.”

 

He blinks slowly, and when he opens his eyes again, golden irises seem to catch a ray of sun and light up on fire. A beaming grin spreads across his face.  _ Gods _ there’s nothing in the world that takes Akaashi’s breath away more than this. Deep red burns high on his cheeks. He looks away with wobbling lips and decides to keep his thoughts to himself.

 

“Kozume-san was an early riser,” Bokuto says and it throws Akaashi for a loop. He turns his head and peers at Bokuto, eyes blinking owlishly wide, but Bokuto fixates his gaze ahead. “Me and her would watch the sunrise together on mornings when I stayed with the night. She’d give me coffee and then I would be bouncing off the walls all day…”

 

They walk forward. Akaashi hangs on to Bokuto's every last word. 

 

“I regret it,” Bokuto states.

 

Akaashi’s free hand shakes. “What do you mean, Koutarou?”

 

“I regret not showing up to her funeral. Every day. Worst mistake of my life.”

 

Akaashi takes a moment to adjust to the information. He listens to the snow crunching beneath their boots, the wind howling, picks apart the prismic colors laced into the sunrise. He thinks of nights staying up late at Kozume-san’s, lying on the floor with Kenma, Kuroo, and Bokuto as if the entire world was right there, in that tiny bedroom. “Kuroo-kun seems to think you don’t feel any remorse,” he says, quietly. “I told him it wasn’t true. He’s still having a difficult time accepting everything.”

 

Bokuto’s shoulders drop. He curls his neck up into his grey and gold knit scarf, shaking his head. For a while, things are silent, contemplative. “He’s gotta know that isn’t true.”

 

“He doesn’t, Koutarou.”

 

Akaashi reaches a free hand down lace his fingers tightly around Bokuto’s. “He doesn’t know… and that’s for you two to solve, not me.”

 

The snow crumbles beneath their feet. Quietly, they continue on into the dawn.

 

“I know, Keiji. I know.”

 

-

 

Fairy lights dot and flare in the corner of Akaashi’s vision, crickets and cicadas singing a summer song away into the night. The wedding reception drones on, far away in the hidden woods, but out here with Bokuto, he’s as free as a bird. 

 

“I went to this wedding in America once, ‘Kaashi-kun, two years ago, me and Tou-san. They get so wild there and they dance until like three in the morning! That’s so much dancing!”

 

The ground is cold against Akaashi’s backside, but the warm summer breeze soothes the shivers in his spine. He looks down at his hands, twirls his fingers around the daisies at his feet. He keeps his gaze hidden. Lest he reveal his deep, very obvious feelings for Bokuto, his friend, his captain.

 

“I’ve never been dancing,” Akaashi comments. He looks up from under his eyelashes and suddenly he’s being pulled up. Strong hands wrap around his wrists and he’s met with a smile so bright he wants to fall back to floor. 

 

Blinding. His Bokuto is  _ blinding.  _

 

_ “‘ _ Kaashi!” Bokuto exclaims. “You have to dance! Dancing is the best!”

 

Heat rises to Akaashi’s cheeks. He reckons he’s as red as the roses in Baa-chan’s hair. “I’m not good at it.”

 

“How do you know you’re not good at it if you’ve never tried?”

 

The question hangs in the air, searing in its simplicity and Akaashi has no answer. His blush only burns and burns.

 

“We’re not at a Western wedding, Bokuto-san. It’s my grandma’s.”

 

Bokuto laces their fingers together and  _ oh gods _ they’re too sweaty, surely he’s going to notice and comment and make fun of Akaashi. There’s no way Bokuto doesn’t know. The hints have been dropped left and right and there’s no running and-

 

“I know, silly! Let’s just dance!”

 

A song starts to float through the midsummer air, sweet and soft with tones of the earth rising up to meet his ears. Bokuto begins swaying them. They rock, slow back and forth. To the right and then the left, feet stumbling over each other and embarrassment rising in their cheeks, but it’s nice. 

 

Akaashi lets it be. He releases hold on all the tension in his body. One blink, he’s up on his own, the next he’s leaning against Bokuto’s chest and fiddling with the leather bracelet on his companion’s wrists. Fingers trace along the button until they find that rigid carving.

 

_ Koutarou. _

 

“I’ve never seen you take this off,” he murmurs, closing his eyes and getting lost in the acoustic strums coming from Bokuto’s phone.

 

Bokuto’s chest stiffens for a moment, and then falls, the smallest of breaths leaving his mouth. Akaashi hears Bokuto’s heart. It beats so fast, so steady and…

 

_ Oh. _

 

_ He knows. _

 

“It’s cause it’s important ‘Kaashi,” Bokuto whispers back, a little breathless. 

 

Akaashi opens up his eyes and fixes his gaze on their entwined fingers. “How so?”

 

A cough ripples Bokuto’s chest. He’s silent for a minute, contemplation running rampant on his face.

 

“I…” 

 

Akaashi squeezes his hand. Bokuto swallows.

 

“I came out when I was eleven.” His voice shakes, loud and low against Akaashi’s chest. “My family was… not the best at first, but they took it in stride, ya’ know. Kaa-san didn’t quite understand, Tou-san didn’t want to.”

 

Akaashi only nods, somber quiet blaring against muted music. 

 

“Baa-chan was the first to really, truly accept me. She asked me about my new name, new pronouns, bought me a lot of new clothes. She got a leather bracelet from her shop and carved my name into it, put it around my wrist and said to me, ‘there. Just in case I forget.”

 

There’s something powerful about the statement that strikes a chord deep in Akaashi’s chest. He looks down, thumb tracing over the carving with an understanding. It’s a symbol of acceptance, the first step toward inner peace. 

 

Slowly, Bokuto’s closing the gap from what he is versus what he was always meant to be, and Akaashi thinks maybe that’s something everyone can relate to. 

 

And by  _ gods,  _ he’s beautiful. 

 

Akaashi leans away, tilting his head up and fully examining Bokuto’s face. He traces pupils down long planes of shadow over deep set eyes and pale lashes. He’s gorgeous. He’s amazing. He’s  _ inspiring.  _

 

Akaashi sways along into the night, wondering just how in love he truly is. 

-

 

It’s dark in Bokuto’s apartment, quiet almost. In five hours, he and Akaashi will leave for Miyagi, but for now, it’s just them two. Nishinoya out for the night. There’s no Oikawa or Iwaizumi or Kuroo or Suga. No restraints, no time. 

 

They’re kissing. Akaashi is floating; he thinks he’d like to die kissing Bokuto. The Bokuto he’s known for years, the one with thunder in his voice and drum beats in his footsteps, is nothing compared to the Bokuto that’s kissing Akaashi. He’s gentle, slow. His hands cup Akaashi’s cheek, thumbs under tired eyes. Akaashi is cradled in Bokuto’s arms. The guidebook he’d bought said that Bokuto’s spike averages out at 127 kh/h. He’s powerful, with rippling muscles and sinew, but he treats Akaashi like precious porcelain. 

 

Only tonight he wants  _ more _ . Bokuto takes a chance, lips traveling to Akaashi’s neck and it sends tingling sensations all the way down to his toes. 

 

For years, Akaashi has thought about this. In quiet dark corners of his bedroom, he’d imagine Bokuto’s touch on his face, his back, his thighs. It’s nothing compared to the real thing, so light on his skin. 

 

Bokuto’s hands shake. He backs away from Akaashi, golden eyes darting in every direction, shining under the low light of Bokuto’s bedroom. 

 

“Koutarou?” Akaashi asks, voice soft and sweet. 

 

“I’m sorry, Keiji, I didn’t mean to,” Bokuto whispers back. 

 

Akaashi’s brow knits. “What do you mean? The neck kiss?”

 

Bokuto nods, blushing down to the roots of his hair. Akaashi pulls him back close. He puts his hand over Bokuto’s still beating heart. 

 

“Koutarou, my love,” Akaashi murmurs. “It’s okay. I want you.”

 

“As in like…” Bokuto scratches the back of his head. 

 

“I want to have sex with you,” Akaashi deadpans. 

 

“O-okay,” Bokuto breathes. 

 

Akaashi feels Bokuto’s heart speed up under his palm. The man in his arms looks so scared, so vulnerable. 

 

He takes a step back, guides Bokuto to sit at the edge of the bed. Bokuto trembles in his grip and Akaashi thinks he has a bit of clue as to what’s running through his partner’s mind. 

 

“Koutarou, if you aren’t ready for this, it’s okay,” Akaashi says. “You could never be ready and I’d be happy with you nonetheless.”

 

Bokuto visibly swallows. He blinks his eyes closed and nods. 

 

“But if you’re holding back because you’re concerned I’ll see you differently because of your body, I want to soothe that worry.” He takes Bokuto’s jaw in his hand. It strikes him suddenly just how in love he is. He’d give the world and then some to make Bokuto happy, anything for that beautiful smile of his. He wants to take away all the insecurities laced deep down within Bokuto. “You’re not any less of a man. You’re the strongest man I know and your body has nothing to do with that.”

 

The tendons in Bokuto’s jaw relax. His lips fall into a light smile. Akaashi loops his hands around Bokuto’s neck. They connect in a gentle kiss, soft lips just barely touching as their foreheads lie against each other. Sweetly, Bokuto smiles into it. 

 

“I’ve dreamed of this for years,” he admits, eyes just barely cracked open. 

 

Akaashi moves to straddle Bokuto, pushing him down against the dark blue sheet. His white hair fans behind him, hued soft green and pink from the neons bleeding through his open window. Delicate shadows fall down the hard planes of his face, eyes blown wide open. Bokuto trembles, just slightly. 

 

“Oh,” Akaashi breathes out. 

 

_ Bokuto’s so beautiful.  _

 

“You’re so beautiful, Keiji,” Bokuto says so softly; it’s almost swallowed by the night. 

 

Akaashi takes Bokuto’s hand, squeezes it tight. “As are you,” he replies. 

 

Leaning over, Akaashi meets Bokuto’s lips in another kiss, this one much more heated. Their tongues glide around each other. Their noses smush close together. Akaashi’s brow creases with effort as he opens his mouth wider. 

 

The kiss grows sloppy. It’s suddenly not enough and Bokuto’s small noises are getting him very needy very fast. He’s never  _ needed _ anyone in his entire life, but here, he’s overwhelmed. There’s an urge sitting in his chest, fueled by the moans escaping Bokuto, and Akaashi  _ needs _ to take care of it. 

 

Akaashi  _ needs _ to take care of Bokuto. 

 

“Koutarou,” he pants, eyes closed, breath heaving as Bokuto’s hands palm at the curve of his ass. “Koutarou, l-let me take care of you.”

 

“W-what?” Bokuto stutters out between desperate kisses. 

 

Akaashi pushes down on Bokuto’s shoulders, lightly but enough so that they can look each other in the eye. Bokuto’s gaze is still unsure, blinking rapidly back up at Akaashi. Wringing his hands together, he decides to be clear and stable for Bokuto. It’s what Bokuto needs. 

 

“I want to take care of you, Koutarou.” Akaashi clears his throat, feeling himself start to blush down to the roots of his hair. “I want to… eat you out.”

 

Bokuto grows a bright shade of crimson and it would almost be cute if he didn’t look so uncomfortable. “I uhh,” he says, pupils flitting to the side, “I dunno if you wanna do that…”

 

“Yes I do.”

 

“It’s just that…” Bokuto’s hands grip the sheets tightly. He’s nervous, but absolutely flushed with desire. “You’re gay, right? You don’t think it would be weird…”

 

“Love,” Akaashi says softly, making sure his voice sounds as genuine as possible, “I want to.”

 

Something within Bokuto relaxes underneath Akaashi’s touch. He cups Bokuto’s jaw, leans down, and kisses until they’re both breathless with need. 

 

His mouth makes it’s descent down Bokuto’s jaw, soft yet forceful. It’s Bokuto’s breath that makes Akaashi groan; he’s panting and keening, whispering “Keiji” every once in awhile. Akaashi is overcome with desire. 

 

His fingers wander to the edge of Bokuto’s shirt. It’s risen up with their activities, catching just above his defined hip bones. Azure light covers Bokuto. He glows, beautiful under Akaashi’s roaming gaze. 

 

A neatly manicured finger taps twice on the hem. Bokuto nods and soon Akaashi is tugging it up and off.  

 

And  _ oh _ is Bokuto stunning. 

 

Akaashi’s hands immediately trace down the center of his chest, following the tendrils of ink put there years before. Akaashi had been there through it all, from finding a shop that would allow such a large piece to be done to the final buzz of the gun against Bokuto’s skin. The tattoo has faded a bit by now, but it’s just as gorgeous, lush owl’s wings spiraling up around the twin scars on Bokuto’s chest. 

 

A reverent sigh falls from Akaashi. 

 

It’s Bokuto himself that’s the most beautiful. The planes of his muscles cast long shadows down his torso. Black and blue with that stunning contrast of gold; if Akaashi had his camera on him, he’d capture every breath, every gasp between the shutters of the lens. 

 

“When did I get so lucky,” Akaashi whispers reverently. 

 

They strip each other of their clothing with great care. Shaking hands brush up and down blushing bodies. Muffled groans sneak their way across kisses, and soon Akaashi is completely naked, cock half hard between his legs as he stares down at Bokuto. 

 

Akaashi pushes Bokuto back, sat upright against the headboard. In the back of his head, a surreal voice is murmuring it’s surprise. He registers that, finally, he gets to love Bokuto. He gets to have Bokuto. After so many years of teetering around the edges and testing the waters, it’s Bokuto’s bed that he gets to lie in. 

 

He’s going to sleep with Bokuto. Make love. Have sex. Fuck. Whichever one works best. Whatever it is,  _ it’s happening.  _

 

Akaashi’s heart beats out a samba in his chest. 

 

Bokuto’s boxers are the last things to come off. Akaashi is careful. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Bokuto’s face as he urges those hips up and slides the fabric off long, toned legs. 

 

Bokuto looks so scared. Akaashi tilts his head in concern, but Bokuto just swallows and nods. He’s okay, just nervous. Akaashi understands. 

 

“I’m gonna touch you, Kou, if that’s okay,” Akaashi says. 

 

Despite all the nerves, Bokuto’s eager. He nods again and spreads his legs wide. It eases the anxiety building in Akaashi; Bokuto’s enjoying this. He wants this, and Akaashi wants to make him feel so good. 

 

Deft fingers travel up Bokuto’s thighs. Akaashi mouths lightly at the corner of Bokuto’s jaw. There’s small moans traveling through the room, echoing off the walls, and soon, Akaashi’s fingers are in between Bokuto’s legs. 

 

His touch drifts through a gathering of coarse hair before finally sliding between Bokuto’s wet folds. 

 

Immediately, Bokuto begins to groan. He’s loud. He doesn’t hold back. His hands tangle in Akaashi’s black curls, pulling when Akaashi glides over his clit. 

 

Akaashi closes his eyes, kissing down and down the side of Bokuto’s neck until he’s pressed flat against Bokuto’s sternum. His fingers squirm back and forth on Bokuto’s outer lips, spreading the wetness up and circling around his clit. Bokuto pants loudly, squeezing his eyes shut.  

 

Akaashi kisses further and further down. His lips press across the kanji tattooed just below the owl’s talons.  _ Fly on _ , it reads, and Akaashi cannot help the emotions that wash over him, the pride and joy he feels for the man below him. 

 

“I love you,” he says. His fingers stop. He looks up at Bokuto. “I love you so much, Koutarou.”

 

It’s silent for awhile. Bokuto stares, eyes blown out wide, breath coming in small heaves. Akaashi extracts his fingers. The anxiety in his chest returns tenfold. The more Bokuto stares, the more Akaashi feels the need to run. 

 

But then it comes. A gasp from parted lips. A choked, quiet, “I love you too, Keiji.”

 

A huge sigh of relief escapes Akaashi. “Dear  _ gods  _ Koutarou,” he exhales, closing his eyes slowly. “Please never do that again, oh my gods.” He collapses in a heap on top of Bokuto, the pair of them giggling like fools. 

 

Their quiet chuckles fill the space. The moment is perfect, straight from the walls of an art gallery. Flakes of snow start to drift down outside, casting very small, fleeting shadows that travel down Bokuto’s naked body. 

 

It’s one of those God Moments Akaashi’s grandmother was always on about. She spoke heavily of those times, the pauses in between breaths, the cracks in sidewalks; moments when the gods are the most visible, moments that could turn even the staunchest of nonbelievers. 

 

Akaashi’s never worshipped a higher power in his life, but perhaps, he thinks, fate might’ve granted him favor this time. The man of his dreams lies spread, panting only for him and it makes Akaashi feel like he’s been blessed. 

 

There’s a silence that Akaashi uses to fall to the edge of the bed, slipping off until he lands on his knees. He motions toward Bokuto, encouraging him closer. With slow hesitation, Bokuto complies, legs crossed firmly in front of Akaashi. 

 

“I’m going to go down on you,” Akaashi says, confidence betraying the utter helplessness sitting deep in his stomach. “And I might suck because I’m not experienced in the art of eating someone out but I'm going to take care of you, Koutarou.” There it is, spoken into existence. There’s no turning back, especially when Bokuto uncrosses his legs. 

 

Akaashi leans in, squeezing his eyes shut. “Just,” he whispers, shaking,”if you need anything-“

 

“Keiji please,” Bokuto whines. 

 

It’s breathless, feral, and it awakens something deep within Akaashi’s core. 

 

He leans forward, takes a deep breath, and encloses his mouth around Bokuto’s clit.

 

Hands begin to tug into his hair almost instantly. Bokuto’s thighs close around Akaashi’s head as he writhes in the bedsheet. It’s so hot, burning arousal traveling between Akaashi’s legs, urging him onward.

 

He pulls back, traces Bokuto’s slit with the tip of his tongue, just lightly enough to give Bokuto a break. When the fingers in his curls relax, Akaashi gets to work.

 

He presses the flat of his tongue hard against all of Bokuto, bobbing his head lightly, before laving over Bokuto’s clit. If the moans Bokuto’s making are anything to go by, he’s doing a damn good job at it too. Akaashi smirks with newfound confidence and cracks his eyes open.

 

That’s almost a mistake.

 

If Bokuto was beautiful before, he’s completely breathtaking now. He’s a sweating mess, lips parted and slick with spit. His hair has fallen all over his face, tendrils of black and white moving with him as he squirms. He stares straight into Akaashi’s eyes and Akaashi is struck with the sudden thought that he never wants to look away. 

 

Akaashi blinks. He’s spellbound. His mouth closes over Bokuto’s clit, lapping his tongue at it relentlessly. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Bokuto, taking his right hand and entwining it with those tanned hands pulling at white silk sheets. 

 

It’s pure artistry, the way Bokuto’s body responds. His head is thrown back, white hair like wings feathering outward. Hips cant forward in a steady rhythm. Akaashi’s brain processes it all in slow motion; the shadows of snow falling, the owl on Bokuto’s chest spreading its wings with every move forward, the neon glow streaming through the far window and cutting across the planes of Bokuto’s face. 

 

A God Moment. 

 

Somewhere in the haze of it all, Akaashi had started to pleasure himself, but it’s almost background noise compared to Bokuto’s pitched up whines. It’s a sound Akaashi could never forget, even if he tried and it only gets higher when Akaashi’s tongue fucks into Bokuto. 

 

From then on, it blurs a bit. Somewhere between laving over his clit and pistoning inside of him, his thighs squeeze Akaashi’s head and he curls forward. Just a few warnings, “Keiji, right there, Gods I’m close - ahh, ah, Kei-“

 

Belatedly, Akaashi realizes that Bokuto is coming. His torso spasms back and stretches up, chest arching. Hands crush Akaashi’s fingers against the bed. He’s quiet. His mouth opens, eyes roll back, feet twitch, but his gasps are light as air. 

 

Akaashi follows moments later, his own orgasm taking him by surprise. The sight of Bokuto’s climax tips him over the edge, his own pleasure suddenly becoming very apparent. He keens, removing his mouth from Bokuto, throwing back loud moans to the ceiling. It’s a white hot release, running all the way to the tips of his toes and afterwards, Akaashi’s head spins. 

 

_ That really just happened.  _

 

“That really just happened,” he pants, breath heaving his shoulders up and down. 

 

Bokuto’s hand is still holding his. He smiles so wide his face threatens to split. “That really just happened,” he parrots, voice low and gritty. 

 

It’s with reluctance that they detach from each other. They head to the bathroom. Bokuto takes a piss and laments quietly about how good a pork donburi bowl would be while Akaashi laughs quietly, washing his naked body with a cloth from Bokuto’s own cabinets. It’s strangely intimate and warm, being so exposed in front of Bokuto, but it’s natural. It comes easy, despite never having done anything like this before. 

 

Bokuto comes up from behind Akaashi, one hand curling around his waist, the other thumbing over Akaashi’s own tattoo, the minimalist outline of a great horned owl, inked just above his heart. Fingers brush the lines. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at their reflection in the mirror. 

 

It’s the perfect picture. They’re softly nestled together. Bokuto isn’t looking at their reflection, he’s looking at Akaashi. 

 

Akaashi pulls back the mirror and into the medicine cabinet, checking that his prescription is still there for the morning. It looks perfect, nestled between Bokuto’s testosterone vile and a well used roll of kinesthesiology tape. It makes Akaashi think he’d like to wake up to this everyday even with Nishinoya across the hall and the train that runs right outside the window. 

 

“Kuroo-kun and Yamaguchi-kun are picking us up in the morning,” Akaashi says quietly. “Tsukishima-kun is a Miyagi native and is already up there for a visit with his parents.”

 

Bokuto washes his hands, nodding his understanding. His expression reads nervousness but Akaashi doesn’t push it. They’ll be okay, no matter what Kuroo thinks, no matter what anyone thinks. 

 

“We got lucky. Kuroo-kun says Tsukishima-kun is a provocative piece of shit.” Bokuto laughs at that. 

 

They fall back into bed, cuddled close in no time. Akaashi kisses Bokuto, lazy lips smacking against each other with no agenda, nowhere to go. All is quiet and low, and they’re so in love. 

 

It’s when they’re almost asleep that Bokuto whispers, “Babe, we forgot to pack.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

-

 

Akaashi’s alarm blares, a piercing unending beat of shrill tones that cuts right through the warmth of his comforter. He groans and rolls over, expecting the heated mass that is Bokuto’s naked body, but is met with emptiness.

 

Akaashi blinks once, twice, lets his vision clear before he moves to punch his alarm off. A yawn stretches across his face and for only a moment he lets himself enjoy the stillness of the morning.

 

And then Bokuto bursts through the front door, covered in melted snowflakes and bright white sunshine the follows him as he steps through the apartment. “Good morning, boyfriend!” he exclaims. 

 

_ Boyfriend.  _ Boyfriend. It almost doesn’t fit. Bokuto doesn’t feel like his boyfriend. No, the word isn’t heavy enough to encompass how hard his heart beats when he thinks about Bokuto, the things Bokuto does to him— the  _ thing _ that happened last night. 

 

But there’s no shame. Just pure elation. 

 

Bokuto bounds in with a smile, bounding into the bedroom and dropping a warm brown bag right on Akaashi’s lap. “We’ve got an hour until Kuroo-kun arrives!”

 

No intelligible response makes it out of his mouth so he stares at the bag for a good thirty seconds. “Huh?” he mutters, tipping his head to the side.

 

“I got some dango from the stand down the street! And there’s some tea in the kitchen! C’mon Keiji, let’s go!”

 

Words. Words flow from Bokuto, going and going without stop but Akaashi doesn’t want it to. He smiles, chuckles, and unloads a stick from the bag straight into his mouth. “I love you,” he says slowly. “So  _ damn _ much.”

 

Bokuto lights up like a Christmas tree, taking Akaashi into his arms. Kisses from Bokuto’s chapped lips land up his neck and across his cheeks until Akaashi thinks he’s so blushy he could turn into a rose.

 

“We have to get up, Keiji!” Bokuto exclaims. “Kuroo-kun’s gonna be here!”

 

Akaashi finishes chewing on his dango and tosses the paper bag to the side. Stickly sweet coats his tongue as he hooks his arms around Bokuto’s neck and pulls him back down to the bed. 

 

_ Stay, _ Akaashi murmurs with a deep, searing kiss and silky dough between teeth.  _ Stay with me longer. Stay in with me, in the sheets where warmth never leaves.  _

 

Bokuto relents, surrenders and lowers his body down next to Akaashi, kissing up his neck. 

 

Akaashi curls hands into Bokuto’s hair, sighing contentedly. 

 

It’s been awhile since mornings were this kind. 

 

-

 

The car ride has been, well, awkward to say the least, especially with Kuroo’s constant staring, probing with unasked question as Bokuto chats loudly in back to an uncomfortable looking Yamaguchi. Signals to Tokyo radio stations were lost two hours ago and all that has followed are Bokuto’s attempts to make up for the silence.

 

“Yamaguchi-kun, this shit is so wild, did you know that Catholics in Spain were allowed to eat Capybara meat on Fridays during like, the Easter season, because they were technically considered fish?”

 

“...That’s so cool… Bokuto-san…”

 

“I told you to drop the ‘san’! It’s too formal, I sound like my dad.”

 

“...Okay, sorry.”

 

Kuroo glances over to Akaashi’s neck from the thousandth time over the past 270 kilometers and Akaashi visibly rolls his eyes this time. Slumping down into his seat, he pulls out his data pad. He feels Kuroo’s eyes, once again. It’s fucking annoying. If he has something to say to Akaashi, he should just come out and say it, not dance around shit like they used to do when they were in middle school. 

 

“It seems like something on my neck has caught your interest, Tekkun,” Akaashi says, lips tight as he browses absentmindedly through a clothing website. Bokuto had been complaining about needing a new coat…

 

Kuroo’s gaze falls back to the road. “Nothing. Looks like you’ve been screwing a leach, thought.”

 

Akaashi flips down the passenger mirror and pretends to be shocked by the alarming color and amount of hickies on his neck. 

 

“I hadn’t noticed.” He had.

 

“What’s Oikawa-kun going to say about that, huh?”

 

“I’m wearing a turtleneck. No worries.”

 

And from the back, boisterous and passionate as always, “Oh yeah! Me and Keiji had sex!” Bokuto blurts.

 

Yamaguchi closes their eyes and leans against the window, as far from Bokuto as they possibly can get and Akaashi can’t bring himself to feel bad for them. He just picks at his nails- long and sharpened to points, painted over with iridescent white for the occasion -and nods in agreement before looking back to Kuroo.

 

“That we did,” Akaashi confirms, solid and nonchalant because he really can’t be fucked to act embarrassed. Plus watching Kuroo squirm makes him smile. It satisfies that petty part of his soul just the tiniest bit.

 

Kuroo glares. Akaashi shrugs. “What? You asked.”

 

He’s met with deafening silence and even Bokuto has half the mind to be quiet. The atmosphere remains this way, uncomfortable and tense, for the last thirty or so kilometers. For the most part, Akaashi just wants to eject himself from the car, moving or not, and hike the last portion of the trip and that one last remaining thread of self restraint he posses just barely stops him from doing so. Gods if Bokuto weren’t here, he reckons he would’ve gone insane by now.

 

But all shitty things come to an end. Life goes on and soon enough they’re pulling up to that beautiful inn bordering the outskirts of Sendai. All thoughts of discontent flee his mind because he can see the top of a towering hot waterfall spilling into a gated area that must be the onsen. The inn itself covers three stories with a massive pavilion built off the side, glass encasing a wooden reception area in what could be described as a modern log cabin. Just around the back, he spots a torii- must be the shrine where Oikawa and Iwaizumi are holding their ceremony. Akaashi can  _ feel  _ the warmth radiating from the building, its yellow light beckoning out toward him in the snowy winter afternoon.

 

Akaashi lets himself out of the car and just stands, staring at the gorgeous venue for a moment. Tomorrow, one his newfound closest friends is getting married. Tomorrow, Kuroo and Bokuto will be in the same room for one whole night. Tomorrow. 

 

“It’s real pretty,” Bokuto says, coming up from behind Akaashi with their suitcases in hand. He’s not looking at the building.

 

Akaashi almost dismisses Bokuto for the sheer amount of  _ cliche  _ he just utilized. Almost. Instead, Akaashi pulls him in for a brief and tender kiss. 

 

As Akaashi walks up to the inn entrance, ignoring the burning stare coming from Kuroo, he vows to himself that it  _ will _ be a good weekend. He’s sure of it.

 

-

 

The next day passes with ease for Akaashi and Bokuto, reception not set to start until about five pm. At around three, they sit together, soaking in the hot springs along with a smattering of F.C. Tokyo players. Sawamura, Yaku, Kageyama, Kuguri and an honorary Sugawara sit back against the stone walls, leisurely chatting while Kuroo seems to be sulking with Tsukishima and Yamaguchi at his sides.

 

And again, Akaashi can’t be fucked to make an effort with Kuroo. If he wants to be a pissant, so be it. 

 

“- fuck off Kageyama-kun, water  _ cannot _ be wet,” Suga says, scowl spreading over his lips.

 

Then a reply from Yaku. “Water by definition is wet! It’s surrounded by other water molecules!”

 

“Since when are you a goddamn chemistry expert, shithead?” Akaashi hadn’t expect Kuguri to get involved, but he stands up, fully flashing his ass to his friends and walks to the other side of the onsen.

 

“Guys, calm down, it really doesn’t matter all the mu-” Sawamura attempts to calm them.

 

“Water isn’t wet,” Akaashi deadpans, without further explanation or proof which sends the group into even more chaos and he thinks he can hear choking noises coming from Kageyama. “Gods, I need new friends,” he mutters to himself, hopping out of the water and reaching for the nearest towel.

 

It’s a quick walk back inside where his bag sits. Bokuto and his volley-buddies continue to argue while Kuroo is  _ still _ on his bullshit even though they’re debating about something involving chemistry. Akaashi already knows his answer and his full list of proofs as to why he believes water is wet. Akaashi’s heard it before and he knows Kuroo is just dying to get in on this. 

 

Let him sulk. He’s only making himself miserable.

 

Akaashi picks up his data pad from his bag and as he reads a the first incoming message, a smile cracks over his face. He runs back outside. “Oikawa-kun and Iwaizumi-kun are officially husband and husband!” he shouts jovially, almost jumping up and down if it weren’t for the fact that he was in a towel and nothing else. 

 

The silly argument dissipates into happy grins. He’s met with excited cheers all across the board, even small smiles from Kuguri and Kageyama respectively. Kuroo’s pout vanishes, favoring a joyful shout of “Kanpai!” as he raises a martini glass- where on earth did he get that, oh gods -and Yamaguchi presses a kiss to his cheek. Tsukishima, the bastard, actually expresses an emotion besides disdain and even though Akaashi’s miffed by the three of them (re: mostly Kuroo) he finds the sight really sweet.

 

He turns on his heel, swiftly walking back to his bag and putting on a loose robe. Oikawa needs him in the main suite about thirty minutes from now, completely dressed and ready to go. The smile of his face is unending, bright. He hopes that right now, Oikawa has found himself a little slice of happiness amongst all the hurt of the past couple weeks.

 

Akaashi marches onward, excitement flowing through his veins.

 

-

 

Blushy happiness encases Oikawa Tooru in an unparalleled glow as he steps out into the hall of his suite. By gods, the dress he wears, though, takes Akaashi’s breath away.

 

Oikawa is an artist’s dream. His slender body stands poised with giddiness as he repeats over and over again, “I’m married, Keiji-kun! I’m married!” The lace on his sleeves ripples with every movement, every excited breath, white traveling all the way up to his neck in gorgeous floral patterns. His upper body is encased in solid lace, fitting over his athletic body perfectly while the rest of the dress falls down his body in simple white cloth waves. There’s flowers in his hair and stars in his eyes as he describes the ceremony.

 

Akaashi kneels on the floor, shooting about a dozen or so candids while Oikawa talks. 

 

“His grandparents,” Oikawa says, voice subdued from excitement. “His grandparents stopped me on their way into the shrine…”

 

Lowering his camera, he stands up and begins to move Oikawa around until he’s in front of the grand mirror, shoulders pushed back in an elegant pose to accentuate his beautiful back. “What did they say?” Akaashi asks quietly.

 

He’s expecting something heartbreaking. That’s how it turns out for people like him and Oikawa, how it always plays out, especially with older relatives. He squeezes Oikawa’s shoulders. 

 

“They said that I’m the right choice for Hajime.” Oikawa breathes, squeezing his fists tight until his eyes shut. He turns around and faces Akaashi. “They said they’ve never wanted anything more than for Hajime to be happy, and that today he’s the happiest he could be.”

 

A small breath escapes Akaashi. That statement takes the air from his lungs, so simple yet full of love and acceptance. Oikawa opens his eyes, only one tear escaping, to which Akaashi catches on his gloved thumb. “You look beautiful,” he states, smiling warmly.

 

Akaashi thinks of leather bracelets and Bokuto’s grandma. He wonders if this is how that feels. He wonders about all the adversity and hardships in Bokuto’s young life, then he wonders about success.

 

It hits Akaashi like a train. 

 

This is why Bokuto skipped Kozume-san’s funeral; why Akaashi risks his own mental sanity just to wear pretty dresses on sunset dates and Oikawa doned lace instead of staying in a traditional tuxedo. It’s why Kuroo posts about his partners on Instagram with a frequency that some might call bordering on obsessive and why Yaku keeps a rainbow flag tied around his kit bag. Acceptance. Love and support for who you are after many instances of suffering. Pride.

 

And Akaashi thinks he understands, finally, why Bokuto did what he did; validation after struggle. Happiness and security.

 

Akaashi, in his heart, forgives Bokuto and lets every last shred of wariness blow away like snowflakes on the wind.

 

Iwaizumi steps through the suite door, having changed into an elegant white tuxedo with pink accents to match the carnations in Oikawa’s hair. There’s a pause, a crack in time here. Iwaizumi looks at Oikawa and for a moment all is still except for the shutters of Akaashi’s camera. 

 

There’s tears in Iwaizumi’s eyes.

 

“You look…” he tries to speak, but his deep voice dies in the back of his throat. A tear slips down his face and opens his mouth again. “You look absolutely stunning.”

 

Akaashi almost doesn’t hear it, but as Iwaizumi leans in and grabs Oikawa’s face, he murmurs, “I’m so lucky.” 

 

It’s a privilege to catch this all on camera. Akaashi takes a few more photos. A shot of their their tender kiss, one of many to come as a married couple, appears on Akaashi’s screen. He stands up, drawing the couple’s attention. “I’m going to go meet Bokuto-san now,” he says.

 

Then he bows, low with gratitude. “Thank you so much for the opportunity.”

 

Thanks to Oikawa, for giving him the right amount of push to go after what he deserves. Thanks to Iwaizumi, for making one of his newest and closest friends the happiest man on the planet. 

 

Before either can respond, he exits the suite, walking through the halls to meet his Bokuto.

 

-

 

With a huffed out breath, Akaashi sets his camera on the table and declares, mentally, that he’s done taking pictures for the night. Oikawa lied to him. They have an actual team of professionals from the Sendai area scattered around the place, capturing every sweet moment between the newlyweds.

 

He collapses down into his seat and immediately begins tearing into his meal with vicious intensity. Yamaguchi, seated on his left, just  _ stares _ , clearly so uncomfortable with this whole situation. Akaashi thinks he remembers Kuroo mentioning something about Yamaguchi having anxiety, the really bad kind that makes one stutter when just trying to speak in public. He takes pity on them, sympathizes with their plight as he calms down.

 

“Geez, Akaashi-kun,” Suga laughs, two seats to his right. 

 

Akaashi chews loudly. “I’m fucking starved,” he murmurs. “Oikawa-kun had me thinking I would be the only photographer for the reception.” The grilled tuna on his plate disappears in seconds while Sawamura smiles fondly and shuffles a bowl of rice toward Akaashi.

 

He almost cries. “You’re my savior, Sawamura-kun.”

  
  


At that, he redirects his attention to the stage. Oikawa’s nephew is stuttering out a speech at the moment, with Bokuto on board next to be the first out of their shared friends to give a dedication to the newlyweds. He sits at the stairs of the stage, tugging at the black bowtie strung around he neck. After a moment of frustration, he gives up. He definitely nervous, flashing Akaashi a thin lipped smile, to which Akaashi responds with a thumbs up. 

 

“Why did you go back to him?” Yamaguchi asks, hushed so as not to disturb anyone trying to listen.

 

Akaashi whips his head toward them and cocks his brow. They barely know each other so he has no clue as to why they think they can ask that calibre of question. “Excuse me?”

 

They seem to shrink back in their seat, eyes closing tightly. “I’m so sorry, forgive me that was really rude I just have heard things from Tetsurou and I know they’re probably unfair-”

 

Akaashi presses a finger to their lips, much to both Kuroo and Tsukishima’s dismay. They stare at him from across the table, looking about ready to pounce. 

 

The defensiveness sinks out of Akaashi’s bones as he realizes the question was born of curiosity, not malice. He just sits back in his chair and gestures to the stage. “You’ll see,” Akaashi says, “soon enough.”

 

Applause dies down only to be met with hooting and hollering from Akaashi’s side of the room. Surrounded by F.C. Tokyo players and many other volleyball personalities, they begin to hype up Bokuto as if they were on court and Akaashi can’t help his charmed grin.

 

So many people love Bokuto.

 

“Good evening, distinguished guests, family and friends, and of course our two grooms,” Bokuto begins, running nervous hands through slicked back hair as he steps a bit closer to the mic. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous for a speech before, even the Vanguard I got in America was easier than this, really…” He peters off the end of the sentence with a nervous laugh and Akaash sees Kuroo scoff out of the corner of his eye. 

 

It infuriates Akaashi to no end.

 

“I met Oikawa first because Oikawa is, well, Oikawa and really obnoxious at best, down right annoying at worst, like this little fly you can’t get rid of, always buzzing in your ear, ya’ know.” This is met with chuckles with the guests and mock offended cries pouring from Oikawa’s spot as he snuggles into Iwaizumi for moral support. “I kept to myself for the first month after joining the team, pretty quiet, which I know some of y’all can’t believe and I don’t blame you. Oikawa was a damn pest, though. Wouldn’t leave me alone for anything, even when I was in the shower which was really weird…”

 

Sawamura nods, sipping at his wine. “He did the same to me,” he comments, to no one in particular.

 

Bokuto goes on to recount their various shenanigans, touching on the comradery between him and Iwaizumi fucking around with Oikawa constantly, just general feel-good memories between the three of them; some of their most memorable plays together, their most emotional wins, their toughest loses, and those tiny, beautiful moments of love and acceptance. It warms Akaashi’s heart.

 

But it's the end that moves him the most.

 

“Oikawa and Iwaizumi, as I found out a few months ago, were scouted before me. They had little to no power in a team that they had just signed deals with, and it was the two of them who heard about the ongoing debate about whether or not coach should pick me up or not.”

 

Boktuo tugs on the sleeves of his jacket, hands finding that leather bracelet hidden beneath his shirt.

 

“Oikawa put his career on the line. He told coach that if he wasn’t going to consider me fairly, based on my abilities instead of my gender, he would walk out and take Iwaizumi with him.”

 

He pauses, adjusting his bowtie. His gaze directs toward Akaashi for a brief moment.

 

“The two of them were brave as hell for that... and I’ve never met two people more deserving of happiness than Iwaizumi and Oikawa.”

 

Akaashi places a hand over his chest. Oikawa has started to tear up while Iwaizumi hides his reddened face in his jacket.

 

“All the best wishes to my closest friends and allies as they start married life!” Bokuto yells, eyes scrunched up with joy. Thunderous applause erupts as he exits the stage, not before stopping to give his friends a warm, tear-filled embrace. He then, trots down the stairs and heads toward their table.

 

Akaashi wants to explode from the love that fills him. He’s in absolute, complete awe of Bokuto Koutarou, every single day of his life. He’s never met anyone more amazing, more wonderful, more talant-

 

Why the hell is Kuroo dragging Bokuto into the lobby? Why the fuck is Yamaguchi about to cry and Tsukishima looking alarmed as fuck as he stares at a stain of red wine on Yamaguchi’s desk? 

 

What the fuck is going on?

Most are distracted by the events taking place on stage- some type of performance by Iwaizumi’s friend from university. Only a handful turn to look as Akaashi sprints after the distressed group, disappearing into the lobby.

 

-

 

Kuroo’s still crying at the steps of the temple when Bokuto’s van shows up, black matte tires crushing snow into the pebbles. Grey and brown, the color remains absent even when Bokuto appears clothed in vivid crimson sweats. 

 

Immediately, the sadness drains from Kuroo, all the grief and the pain gives way to a very apparent and unmistakable rage. He looks up from under black bangs, arm crooked over his face in attempts to cover the single tear that rolls down his cheek. 

 

Akaashi falls back behind him, next to Daishou and Kenma, because Kuroo doesn’t waste his breath. 

 

He snaps up, just as the van rolls away, reels his hardened fist back, and lands a solid blow on Bokuto. Right on his cheek, enough to crack his sunglasses straight down the center. 

 

Akaashi remains frozen to the ground, watching in a trance as Bokuto stands there, allowing every punch with little backlash. Daishou is the only one with half a mind to try and stop Kuroo. 

 

There’s no sound in Akaashi’s ears but Kuroo’s mouth is wide open with shapes of curses and cries loud enough to alert the priests inside. The screams, the shouting, everything blurs into white noise while Akaashi holds onto Kenma, forcing himself to watch Bokuto’s face go black and blue. 

 

What he does hear is the crack of Kuroo’s shoulder as Daishou forces him away. His yelp of pain brings Akaashi back into the zooming present, the racing pace of events rushing in front of his glazed over eyes. 

 

“Fuck off! Get out of here, you fucking piece of shit!” 

 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry Tetsurou.”

 

“Calm! The fuck! Down! You're hurting yourself!”

 

“Get off me!”

 

“Do we need to call the police?”

 

“Get him off me,  _ please. Please!” _

 

“ _ Tetsurou…” _

 

Shallow. Everything is shallow and bright,  _ too bright _ , and the beating of his heart fills his ears like the tones of the taiko during festival season. Too much. Too much. He doesn’t know what’s happening, his breath catches in his throat, so tight. 

 

Then nothing. They’ve all stopped. They aren’t looking at each other anymore. There’s no more heat or rage, only concern. Akaashi’s head is white noise, the muffed out sounds after a bomb explodes. He blinks rapidly and only then does he register the frantic, shaking of his hands and the stunted tears falling between choppy inhales.

 

The black and blue turns to red, leaking from Bokuto’s nostril. Kuroo looks unscathed, but he shakes with guilt and concen. There’s no fixing this. Too much has been broken. In Akaashi’s chest, his heart continues to flutter, flutter, flutter.

 

Bokuto tries to touch him. Akaashi flinches, stands straight up, and breaks into a brisk walk. Away. Away from the chaos and the sadness. Away from his fear and the panic that seems to swallow him whole. There’s cries of his name but he walks onward, upward. 

 

Away.

 

-

 

“I can’t believe you! I can’t fucking believe you after all this time, you’re still an unapologetic bastard!” Kuroo yells. Him and Bokuto are out of range of the reception, thankfully, facing each other with their hackles raised and Akaashi just knows a fight’s going to happen. 

 

Out here in the open, their steps click and echo against hardwood planes. It’s dark, with just a few stray lamps casting solemn gold light over the two of them.

 

Bokuto glares defensively. “I apologized for spilling the wine on their dress, Kuroo-kun, why the fuc-”

 

“This isn’t about wine!’ Kuroo gets closer, right up in Bokuto’s face and Yamaguchi lets out a terrified squeak. “Gods, it’s never been about this stupid menial shit! It’s about you abandoning me and Akaashi and Kenma!”

 

“I didn’t abandon anyone!” Bokuto yells back, helpless to the emotional tears that begin to fall down his face.

 

“You never called.” Kuroo’s teeth flare into view as his lips curl. He’s going to pounce, sooner or later. “You never texted. You never tried to fix things, Bokkun. You didn’t care!”

 

“Don’t tell me what I care about! You don’t know the shit that I went through after she died!” Bokuto’s face falls, deep sadness and guilt inching over his features. His voice drops to a whisper. “You’re not the only one who suffered.”

 

“That doesn’t excuse anything. You should’ve been there. You shouldn’t have just left us for your new volleyball friends and all your fucking fame and fortune because you couldn’t face us.”

 

Bokuto has been reduced to sobs now, ugly snot running down his nose. He wipes his eyes and tries to speak over his breathing. ‘I’m sorry,” he whispers. Then he repeats it, twenty maybe thirty times over as he lowers himself to the ground, nearly kissing it. “I’m so sorry, Tetsurou.”

 

Kuroo stares down, disgust leaking from his grimaced lips. “Sorry’s not fucking enough.”

 

And that snaps something in Akaashi, something deep and angry enough to overcome any fear. He rushes forward from his position behind Bokuto, right into the light. Yamaguchi cries out, trying to break free of Tsukishima’s grip as he holds them back. Akaashi’s mad. Akaashi’s absolutely pissed. Every nerve in his body is aflame with rage as he reels his fist back to punch Kuroo.

 

He pushes forward with all his might.

 

His knuckles never even scrape Kuroo’s face.

 

“Stop!”

 

Kuroo stares, eyes wide, jaw dropped with pure disbelief. Yamaguchi and Tsukishima are stunned into silence. A faint violin song drifts through the air.

 

Bokuto’s arms is wrapped around his fist, holding Akaashi back mid-swing. “Stop, Keiji,” he murmurs. “Kuroo-kun doesn’t deserve it.”

 

The fights drains out of Akaashi, melting away to incredible sadness that he can feel deep in his bones. Tears escape, small droplets leaking out of the corners of his eyes and down red cheeks. “Please,” he cries. “Please. Please.”

 

Bokuto lets go of him, gently letting him stand on his own. “Please what?”

  
Akaashi just shakes his head, hands trembling against his sides. “This has already taken so much out of us. Please, don’t let it destroy our friendship too.”

 

Bokuto and Kuroo both deflate, staring at each other while Akaashi cries, crouched down on the floor. 

 

“Why didn’t you let him punch me?” Kuroo asks.

 

“Because you’re still my friend,” Bokuto replies. “You always have been.”

 

_ Friend.  _ Akaashi looks back up at the two of them and finally, the exhaustion gives way to pure and simple relief.

 

Bokuto clears his throat. “The F.C. Tokyo agreement was being finalized on the day of her funeral and I’m…. a coward. I didn’t want to face you or Kenma or Akaashi, but I regretted it the moment I got out of the meeting, Tetsurou. I never… wanted to hurt anyone, but I thought I had done enough damage… and I’m so sorry.”

 

Kuroo looks so relieved. He nods with a freedom to his movements that Akaashi hasn’t seen in years. It’s what he’s needed all along to start healing. Closure and, ultimately, forgiveness.

 

He clicks his tongue and begins to rub awkwardly at his bun. “I’m sorry too,” he sighs. “I know how big of an opportunity that was for you, especially with all your struggles, Bokkun. I’ve missed you so much.”

 

Bokuto waves his hand, laughing lightly to himself. “Dude, the fuckin’ team doesn’t matter for jack shit if you hate me.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

Then, tentatively, they move toward each other. Slowly, so slowly. Akaashi holds his breath.

 

For the first time in three years, Kuroo and Bokuto share an embrace.

 

-

 

“Bet you can’t fuckin’ do that trick where you eat like five cigarettes anymore.”

 

“Yeah, because I quit smoking, you moron.”

 

And this is how Bokuto and Kuroo have chosen to catch up, at the dwindling hours of Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s after party, drinking and fucking around at the bar as if nothing had ever been wrong between them. Yamaguchi and Tsukishima sit beside him, both nursing cups of hot tea and blinking away weary yawns. 

 

“Is this how they always were?” Yamaguchi inquires, a tired drawl on his lips.

 

“Imagine this, but when they were stupid teenagers,” Akaashi replies, sipping at his champagne while he attempts to hear Bokuto and Kuroo’s conversation over Sawamura’s drunken rendition of Mariah Carey’s  _ Always Be My Baby.  _

 

“They’re both morons,” Tsukishima muttered.

 

“Yep,” Akaashi sighs dreamily. “They’re our morons.”

 

Sugawara steps onto the karaoke stage and begins with an inconspicuous wink at Kuroo and Bokuto.  _ Oh no _ . This can’t be good.

 

And then ABBA starts playing and it’s over for all of them. Go home everyone, because  _ Dancing Queen _ is a Bokuto and Kuroo classic, dating back to those summer training camp days where Bokuto would drag them to Karasuno’s beds to fuck around with Sugawara.

 

The two of them grab Akaashi, one hand in Kuroo’s, the other on Bokuto’s ass, somehow, and by the time the intro is over, the four of them are up on the stage, singing the opening lyrics with no sense of pitch or rhythm whatsoever. It’s loud. It’s annoying. It’s so stereotypically bubbly that it should make Akaashi want to throw up, but he’s happy. By gods, he’s so happy.

 

Bokuto dips him down for a kiss at the end of the song and next to him, Kuroo makes a sound of disgust, but all is well. He’s got his best friend beside him, and the love of his life in his arms.

 

Things are okay, or at least one day, they will be. For now, Akaashi takes this happiness and runs with it, kissing Bokuto back with every ounce of love and passion he can muster.

 

-

  
  


The snow is falling slowly, so slowly. Soft and white flakes whip themselves too and fro, catching on Bokuto’s suit. It’s his best suit, the one he wore accepting his Vanguard award. Akaashi remembers watching that speech on a live stream, remembers his words, stuttered out through honored sobs and broken English. At the time, it might’ve been the most important speech of his entire life.

 

Here, amongst the gravestones and the quiet cold, that doesn’t matter. 

 

Kuroo is quiet, Kenma even more so. Their eyes are harrowing gold, peaking up at Bokuto with expectancy. Akaashi stares forward. 

 

The Kozume family grave looks tiny next to Bokuto. He towers over it, bulky frame wider than the grey stone. 

 

Akaashi used to play violin when he was younger, about twelve years old when he’d finally quit. He found it meticulous. He couldn’t get it to play the notes he wanted. The only noises to come out were scratching sopranos that hurt his ears and gave his parents a headache. 

 

There was only one moment that he found it beautiful and that was the warm up note. 

 

An esteemed student would walk up to the front and play an even, extended note to which his peers would tune to. And the orchestra would join in, rising and falling with warm tones. The bass, the violas, the violins, the cello, all together in one note, building like the dawn of a new day. It was beautiful, a moment that would always, without fail, take his breath away. 

 

Bokuto steps up to the stone. A single note plays in Akaashi’s head. Its beautiful, he’s beautiful. He squeezes Akaashi’s hand once, before lowering himself to the ground. 

 

He strikes a match, lights the incense. The yellow flame burns bright. From the satchel on his back, he extracts a bundle of beautiful red roses. 

 

And he begins to speak with a cracked voice. 

 

“I’ve written a thousand letters to you since you died,” Bokuto murmurs, loud enough for Kenma to hear, for all of them to hear. “There’s balls of paper that cover my desk and Nishinoya-kun always complains about the mess and the trees I’m killing. He’s probably right. I’m a mess, I need to fix it.”

 

Akaashi doesn’t hold back the tears, Kuroo bites his lip. Kenma remains as still as a statue, unreadable. 

 

“I didn’t come to your funeral because, well, I couldn’t. I dunno how to explain it to you, but I couldn’t. There’s this twisted part of me that keeps blaming myself for your death. I should’ve talked to you more, should’ve checked up on you. I still get nightmares about the day I got the news.

 

“I was in the middle of the most important match of my career. We were up by five in the last set and the scouts were there. For the first time in my life, they weren’t judging me by how I compared to the cis guys, but by my own ability. We won, and the scouts approached and I was on the highest high, kaa-san. When I got home though, I listened to Kenna’s voicemail.”

 

His voice has broken, cracks running straight down through the man in front of Akaashi. He shakes, trembles, and suddenly the guilt is so apparent in Bokuto’s body. Akaashi wonders how there ever could have been any doubt. 

 

“Kuroo punched me for not coming.” Bokuto chuckles, running his hands through his hair. “And Akaashi patched me up afterward. I think that sums up where we are now, kaa-san. I don’t blame him for any of it, even now. I deserve to be punched a thousand times because I let success blind me from my roots, my people.”

 

The warm up builds and builds, rises to an ambient light in Akaashi’s head. The white of winter becomes less like an oppressive blanket and more like the brightness that’s been missing from his life for so long. Bokuto and his big heart. Bokuto and his smiles bringing sunshine. Bokuto and the love that pours out from him, each and every single day. This is the man Akaashi fell for, back when that man was a boy and too scared to stand up for himself. Before Bokuto Koutarou the star was born, Bokuto Koutarou was a beautiful boy who would never mean any harm. 

 

Akaashi loves him so much. 

 

“I’m sorry.” Bokuto bows his head until his lips kiss the stone. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.” His brow creases, falls, and he’s sobbing over the stone now. He cries for a few minutes. It’s almost uncomfortable, just standing there, but he can’t help Bokuto yet. This is something Bokuto has to do himself. 

 

He picks his head back up and thumbs under Kozume-san’s name. He’s crestfallen, guilt written on his face. “I regret it everyday.” The tears flow down and down. “I regret ignoring you for the stardom I gained. It was one of the most difficult choices of my life, deciding between attending your funeral and going to the meeting with F.C. Tokyo. I regret it because I lost you then, and I lost Keiji, Tetsu, and Ken all in the same day. 

 

“I think sometimes that it was you that made Keiji hear that radio show. It was complete chance. I missed all of them so badly, I wasn’t even supposed to talk about my past in such heavy detail, but I just needed so badly to say something. It was a miracle that Keiji ever heard. Maybe it was your meddling. Without him I wouldn’t be here to finally say sorry and get my best friends back.”

 

He breathes heavily. The note comes to a close, a suspended viola hanging in the air. Bokuto’s not done yet. 

 

The words come out shallow, gentle, vulnerable whispers. “I did it, kaa-san. I made it. I proved all those bigots wrong. I’ve raised so much awareness and acceptance and I get to do it everyday just by existing. I rose above all the difficulties and I can only hope…” He stops and turns his head over his shoulder. His gaze is fixed on Kenma. 

 

“I can only hope that it was worth everything I gave up.” He bows his head. A strand of his hair falls forward and spills onto the white snow. 

 

The last note dies out. Kenma raises his hands to his face, a single unexpected bass note rising and swelling from nowhere. Akaashi stares and he feels  _ it _ .  _ That moment.  _

 

Catharsis. A moment sent from the gods. The cracks of gold in a broken dish, the ones his grandmother used to collect. Running into Bokuto’s arms after he scores the match point. Hearing Bokuto’s voice at 8pm in between the fizzles of a summer romance anthem. Seeing those golden eyes widen with life after so many years apart. Oikawa looking up at Iwaizumi, at his new husband. Bokuto and Kuroo dancing together. Healing, finally, after leaving a wound open for so long. 

 

They very tilt of ground, the earth’s axis, shifting. Forgiveness. 

 

“Koutarou.”

 

Kenma’s voice is scratchy, deep, melodic. Akaashi’s eyes fill with tears. He hasn’t heard Kenma speak since the funeral. 

 

Bokuto’s head whips up, gaze frozen as Kenma’s hand grips his shoulder. 

 

Kenma smiles, squeezes lightly, a sheen of tears over his pupils. “It was.” He swallows, yellow eyes falling to the snow. “It was worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you. so very much.


	6. epilogue: life/love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long hard winter, the snow must always melt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has… defined me for a very long time, changed my life, helped me discover my true potential, and so much more, so I’m finding it very difficult to post this. It’s out there, finally, and I’m still not sure how I feel about it. 
> 
> For now, I’d like to wax poetic about the many people who have encouraged me and helped me out so much while writing. 
> 
> For my beta readers, murph, raleigh, rin, jean. Thank you all for correcting all my dumb mistakes and reassuring my confidence over and over. 
> 
> For my friends. Those who’ve been by my side since I came up with this idea months ago with the single goal of creating something life changing. I did it. It changed me, for the better, I’d like to think, and that’s all I’ve ever needed. 
> 
> For [Alex](https://twitter.com/thulbs) who created a beautiful cover for me, which can be found at the end of this fic linked under '[FIN]'
> 
> Finally, to my readers, to the lgbt youth, trans youth in particular reading this. Your strength is astounding. Your resilience is breathtaking. Fly on.

Akaashi leans back against the cool brick of Sugawara’s cafe, relishing in the slight warmth caught in the breeze. He rubs under his eyes and glances at the top of his data pad screen. Just a few more minutes until Bokuto gets off from practice.

 

_To Ennoshita Chikara_

_And how are things with Futakuchi-san?_

 

He glances up and throws back a sip of coffee, full of sugar and fully caffeinated as a once a month treat for the long work week ahead of him. At least he has time to see Bokuto on his lunch break.

 

_From Ennoshita Chikara_

 

_[image attachment]_

 

_Pretty damn good, Akaashi!_

 

The picture shows them two smiling at the summit of some mountain range in Europe, holding hands with that look on their faces like nothing else in the world matters but each other. Akaashi grins warmly. He thinks he knows how that feels.

 

_To Ennoshita Chikara_

 

_You look happy!_

 

Happiness used to feel so out of reach, something unattainable with the weight of the past on Akaashi’s shoulders. Happiness was something elusive and fleeting, like snow drifting through the wind, and maybe Akaashi had resigned himself. Maybe he had settled and for a very long time he suffered for it.

 

_From Ennoshita Chikara_

 

_I am!_

 

It’s not Bokuto who fixed everything, either. Believing that someone else holds the key to your happiness is just plain old moronic. Akaashi also believed that for a long time.

 

_To Ennoshita Chikara_

 

_I’m glad!_

 

Here’s what Akaashi believes now; no one can fix another person, but they sure can let the light in. He believes that maybe between warm morning kisses and evenings cuddled up with his best friend, he’s found those sorts of people. He also believes there’s cracks in between darkness. After a long hard winter, the snow must always melt. Healing and recovery is not impossible, it’s inevitable.

 

From around the corner, Bokuto emerges in his practice gear, shining bright, as he always has.

 

Akaashi shoves his data pad into his pocket and raises his hand over his head. With a smile he reserves only for his Bokuto, he bounds forward, calling out loud and clear.

 

“Koutarou!”

 

[[FIN]](https://twitter.com/ugliegay/status/1046129938355703808)

 


End file.
